


'Til the Last

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, Angst, Child Abuse, Destiel - Freeform, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Frottage, Gore, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Racism, Romance, Slavery, Slow Build, Torture, War, While I do write of implied/political relationships, friends since childhood, loads of UST, outdoors sex, so much UST you'll think it's killing you, the only romantic pairing will be deancas, they won't be discussed in depth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 75,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the war came, Dean Winchester was determined that he was not going to get involved.  He had more important things to worry about than some rich man’s fight.  He had work on the farm and he had taking care of his family.  Nothing else was worth his worry.  But in August in the Year of Our Lord 1863, when the soldiers came knocking, they weren’t asking.  They dragged Dean away.</p><p>Dean and Cas have been best friends since they were kids.  When Dean is drafted into the Confederate army, to what lengths will Castiel go to ensure that Dean makes it back home alive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While this is a historical AU, names and details, and some vernacular have been changed to suit this story. Take note of archive warnings: this story takes place in a very dark part of US history and therefore contains dark themes. Archive warnings apply to the story as a whole and you can assume unpleasantness abounds in every chapter. Please do not read if any of the above is triggering. (I have tried to handle the material within this story in a way that minimizes its offensiveness, however, considering the themes of the story, that was not entirely possible. I apologize in advance if anything within this story causes offense to you, lovely readers. Read at your own discretion.)
> 
> Additional A/N: I have tried to represent the places and events to the best of my ability, however, since I am not infallible and in fact was not there, I accept all mistakes as my own. 
> 
> Note on character deaths: This is a story about war. A lot of people died in real life and a lot of people will die in this story. If you want details about this before you start reading, feel free to message me on my tumblr and I will answer any questions! http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/
> 
> Here's a wonderful soundtrack for the story, if you want some mood music :) http://8tracks.com/miss_grey/til-the-last

                                   [](http://s1362.photobucket.com/user/muliasz/media/aaad5989-4044-40c4-81fa-e19ac31640af_zpsad3f8b32.jpg.html)

 

 

_August, 1863_

 

 

            Castiel was heavily engaged in a thick volume by an Englishman named Locke when he heard the commotion in the drawing room.  He carefully slid his place marker in between the pages of his book and made his way from the library, tucking his hands into his pockets as he went.  One of his father’s overseers, a lanky, middle aged man by the name of Joshua Wyler, stood in front of his mother, hat in hand, and fought to get his heaving chest to calm.  Castiel stood in the entryway of the room, not quite willing to commit himself to the ensuing conversation, but not wanting to miss whatever news the man brought either.  Finally, with another large gulp of air, Joshua straightened and said “Forgive the intrusion, madam, but I bring news.  The army has arrived in Forsyth and they’re drafting up the remaining boys of Monroe County as we speak.  I saw with my own eyes them dragging the Fisher boys down the road.”

            Castiel’s heart stuttered but he kept his face a cool, indifferent mask.  His mother, Naomi, straightened visibly, eyeing the other man with disdain for his obvious excitement.  “Well Joshua, I’d say it’s a fit way for those boys to finally make themselves of use to the great state of Georgia, instead of wasting their lives as hog farmers, wouldn’t you agree?”

            Joshua bowed his head, his fingers curled tighter into his sweat-soaked brown cap.  “Uh, yes madam, of course.”

            Castiel cleared his throat, folded his arms over his chest.  His mother shot a look back over her shoulder at him, her annoyance apparent only in the slight tightening of skin around her eyes.  “Thank you for the news Joshua.  You may leave now.”  She waited until the door to the drawing room was shut and Joshua’s footsteps had faded away before she turned fully to face her only son.  The slight downturn of one side of her mouth was the only indication that she was upset: her crystal blue eyes were as cool as always.  “I know what you’re thinking, Castiel, and I forbid you to interfere, do you understand me?”

            “Mother, how am I expected not to get involved?  Mr. Wyler just informed you that the Confederate army has come to draft the remaining men of Monroe County….”  His mother cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.

            “The draft is for commoners, Castiel.  When will you accept that you are above them?  You have no worry of the army, I can assure you.  Half the Congress owe this family favors.”

            “And what of the other young men who will be pulled from their families today?  What of the ones who cannot simply _buy_ their way out of service?”

            His mother clenched her jaw and gave him a hard look.  “As I told Joshua: they can finally make their selves of service to a greater good.”

            “But not me.”

            “No, Castiel.  The banality of combat is beneath you.”  His mother turned from him then, her wide azure skirts sweeping gracefully as she left him alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The air inside the Forsyth Post Office, commandeered as enlistment headquarters, was close and humid, sharp with the scent of fear and sweat.  Dean was there, trapped in a line of other men ranging in age from 16 to 45, a mutinous scowl fixed firmly in place, when Castiel arrived.  Castiel watched him for a moment, aware of each tiny shift of Dean’s body as he moved his weight from one foot to the other.  His face was rosy with the heat and his shirt clung to his back with sweat.  He cast furtive glances around him and clenched his fists at his sides.  Castiel knew with certainty that if there were not armed guards keeping watch over them, Dean would have made a run for it.  But there _were_ guards and a whole Southern army waiting to dig its claws into these men and take however much blood it could to sustain itself.  There was no going back, no running, because these soldiers knew where Dean lived, and there was nowhere else for him to go.  So Castiel stood to the side and waited, watching as man after man was pushed to the front of the line, given the pen, and coerced into signing his name.  He waited until Dean scratched the pen across the paper, brows heavy, jaw locked, before he moved.  Dean was shoved out of the line and Castiel flowed into it.  Dean must have caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye because he turned, mouth turning down and he said “Cas?”  Then angrily, “ _Cas._ What are you doing?  Get out of that line.”

            Castiel ignored him and moved to the front.  Dean stomped over to his side, hissing in his ear for him to quit being stupid.  He tugged at Castiel’s arm, and Castiel shook his hands off.  The soldier behind the desk met Castiel with wide-eyes as he took in Castiel’s pressed black trousers, crisp white shirt, and dark blue waistcoat.  “Name, sir?”

            “I am Castiel Novak.”

            The soldier chuckled, shot a glance to the other soldiers in the room.  “Mr. Novak, there must be some mistake.  Your arrangements have already been made.  There’s no reason for you to waste your time here, sir.”

            Castiel quirked an eyebrow and shook off Dean’s grasping hands once more.  “Winchester.  Which unit has he been assigned to?”

            The guard cast a furtive look at Dean, glowering behind Castiel, before he consulted his papers.  “That would be Singer’s unit, sir.”

            Castiel nodded.  “Very well.  I intend to sign for that unit also.”

            The soldier balked.  “Sir, the army appreciates your desire for duty, but I assure you there are other units you would find more to your taste.  Next town over, they’re filling out their cavalry unit…”

            Castiel leaned forward over the table and plucked the pen from the man’s fingers.  “I intend to sign for Singer’s unit.”

            “But sir, there are no positions for officers within…”

            Castiel cut off his protest vaguely as he scrawled the name _Novak, Castiel_ underneath that of _Winchester, Dean_.  “I am not enlisting as an officer, soldier.”  Once he’d signed, he set the pen down gently on the desk.  “When can I expect to leave?”

 

 

 

            Castiel was impressed with Dean’s ability to wait until they were outside of the post office before he turned and shoved Castiel into the brick wall, eyes bright and furious.  “Cas, you dumb son of a bitch.  What were you thinking?”

            Castiel shook Dean’s hands off.  “I was _thinking_ I’d just joined the Georgia infantry regiment.”

            Dean shoved him back again, hands fisting in the silk of Castiel’s waistcoat.  “ _Why?_ ” He growled.  Castiel glared back at him, silent, jaw clenched.  After an interminable amount of time, Dean sagged back, pushing away from Castiel.  “God damnit.” He whispered. 

            The walk back through town was tense, silent.  Dean kept shooting Castiel angry, upset glances.  Castiel refused to meet his eyes or apologize.  Finally they reached the fork in the road where they were meant to part ways.  Dean scuffed his boot into the dirt.  “You realize we are meant to report for duty tomorrow morning, don’t you?”

            Castiel nodded.  “Yes, Dean.”

            “What are you gonna do until then?”

            Castiel sighed, pinching the bridge of nose to fight off the impending headache.  “I suppose I should return to my family and inform them of my decision.”  He snorted mockingly.  “I don’t imagine that conversation will go over well.”

            Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, refusing to meet Castiel’s eyes.  “You’re welcome to come to the house, if you need to.  I can only imagine what your night is gonna be like.”

            Castiel smiled softly.  “Thank you, Dean.  I appreciate it and will likely take you up on that offer.”  Castiel sighed and turned toward his path.  “Until then….”  He waved at Dean and made his way toward his father’s house.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Jo had tearstains down her cheeks when Dean got home, and Sammy’s eyes were red.  Thank God for Ellen, strong as always, who stood inside the door with her arms crossed and jaw set.  “Well, they make you sign?”

            Dean focused on her so he wouldn’t have to see the kids upset.  “Yeah, Ellen.”  Dean bowed his head.  “I’m sorry.  I did what I could, but they was guarding us with guns and I didn’t think…well, they know where we live, and we ain’t got no place else to go.  I tried,” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat, finally looking back to his aunt.

            Ellen’s brows drew down and her eyes softened.  “ ‘Course you tried, sweetie.  We’re not upset with you.”  She huffed, but kept her eyes on him.  “How long do you have?”

            “We’re leaving in the morning.”

            She bowed her head, hissed “Son of a bitch.”  Jo surged forward then, wrapped her arms around him and squeezed.  Dean finally looked at her, then over her head at Sam.

            Sam set his jaw, stubborn.  “I wanna sign up too.”

            Ellen made a sound of protest and Dean shook his head once, sharply.  “You’re still a boy, Sam.”

            He took a step forward, hands balled.  “Well if they’re so desperate for soldiers, I bet they’d take me if I told them I was sixteen.  I could pass.”

            Dean gently removed himself from Jo and went to stand in front of Sam, clasping his shoulders tightly.  “Sam, this war ain’t no place for the likes of you.  The only good thing I can hope will come out of this is that you’ll never have to see it.”

            Sam’s face crumpled then and tears slipped down his cheeks.  “I don’t want you to have to go alone, Dean.  Please.”

            Dean sighed, ran a hand through his hair.  “Cas is going too.”

            Ellen frowned.  “Cas?  I’d ‘a thought that boy would get out of it, seein’ as… well, you know.”

            Dean huffed.  “The bastard _volunteered_ , Ellen.”

            Her eyebrows shot up.  “Cas is as gentle as a kitten.  Why would he do that?  ‘Sides, I thought he was against this war.”

            Dean just looked at her steadily until she understood.  “Oh, honey,” She whispered.

            Dean huffed out a breath, “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

            One of the servants must have run ahead and told his parents that he’d returned because when Castiel stepped foot into the den, his parents were standing there waiting for him, faces stern and dark as storm clouds, imposing.  His mother’s voice was a whip crack when she hissed “ _What have you done?_ ”

            Castiel met his mother’s glare without flinching.  “I’ve made myself of service, mother.”

            Castiel’s father, Zachariah, took one menacing step forward.  “You will not do this, Castiel.  Your place is here.”

            “Not anymore.  I’ve already signed the contract, father.  It cannot be undone.”

            “It can and it will be.”

            “Half of Forsyth saw me enlist, father.  Would you have them whisper about us, call the Novaks cowards behind our backs?”  His father’s eye twitched. 

            “I thought you were a _pacifist,_ Castiel.”  His father hissed the word like it was a disease.

            Castiel stared back blankly.  “Well, you’ve always told me I was too soft, father.  Perhaps the war will remedy that.”

           “And your fiancé, what of her?”  Castiel’s mother barked.

           Castiel’s eyes were cold when he said “I don’t imagine Miss Talbot will cry overly long for me.”  His mother stiffened like she’d been slapped.

           His father pulled himself up tall, cleared his throat and declared “We should have dealt with that boy long ago, but it’s not too late.  He may be going to fight this war but his family is still here.  If you leave, Castiel, we will deal with them in his stead.  Do you understand?”

           Castiel drew himself up and took a single step toward his father.  “You dare to threaten me?  Do it!”  Castiel felt an eerie calm come over him.  “If you dare to harm them, or anyone else I care for, I swear to you that you will regret it.  I will tell the world who you really are, and when the Union army breaks down the walls of Georgia, I will be sure to send them directly here.”  The color drained from his father’s face and he took a step back.  His mother covered her mouth with a shaking hand, affected for the first time in Castiel’s remembrance.

          “When do you leave?”  His father intoned, voice hollow.

          “We leave in the morning.”

          His father sneered at him then, a parting jab.  “Well, at least in the cavalry you have the chance to bring this family some sort of honor, that is, if you don’t turn tail and run like the sniveling coward you’ve always been.”

          Castiel stared at his parents with cold eyes as he said, without inflection, “I signed up for infantry.” 

 

 

 

           Castiel didn’t stay for long.  He packed a change of clothes and his money, and the few things he owned that he couldn’t bear to part with, all of which fit easily within a satchel. Most of what Castiel cherished he already carried with him.  He retrieved his hunting rifle, an Enfield designed with honey colored wood and his initials etched darkly into the butt.  He’d only ever used it to shoot at rabbits and deer, but he determined not to think overly long on that.

           His parents were malicious shadows, lurking within the house, but they did not seek him out and he avoided them as he prepared to leave.  Some dark part of Castiel knew that his parents must wish for his death.  He’d become too obstinate of late and with his parting words to them, he’d sealed his own fate.  It would be much easier for them to mourn a dead son, a soldier fallen during the call of duty, than to have to acknowledge a son who despised everything they stood for. 

           With his satchel slung over his shoulder, he only stopped long enough to say goodbye to Missouri.  She met him in the kitchen with a bundle of food and tears in her eyes.  She hugged him tight and whispered, “You take care of yourself, you hear?”

           Castiel gave a short nod.  “I’ll do what I have to.”

           Missouri pulled back and cupped his cheeks in her hands.  “I know you will, honey.  Because you’re a good man.”

           Castiel kissed her on the cheek then left his parent’s house.

 

 

* * *

 

 

           Cas’s eyes were sad and his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped when Dean opened the door for him.  Dean felt another jolt of anger and regret burn through his belly.  Dean could only imagine what kinds of things Cas’s parents had said to him, so he didn’t ask, just wrapped his fingers around Cas’s wrist and pulled him into the house.  Dean took Cas’s things and set them by the door with his own sack of belongings.  It was strange, Dean thought, how a boy who had everything had so quickly reduced his life’s holdings to a single satchel and an old rifle.  Cas’s eyes were solemn as he and Dean gazed at eachother, trapped in another silent communication.  Again, Dean felt the urge to hit him, but held his fists in check.  Stubborn son of a bitch.

           Ellen was busy over the stove baking for the morning and had already packed Dean all of their spare meat and cheese.  He’d tried to wave her off but she’d insisted that he needed it more than they did right now.  They all kept to easy chatter that evening, avoiding all talk of what the morning would bring.  However much Dean tried to lighten the space and laugh overly loud at jokes, it didn’t help.  If anything, it drew attention to the wrongness of the situation, the tension in the air.  Dean had hoped that if he didn’t acknowledge it, reality would fade for the night, but luck was not with him, as usual.  Sam kept shooting Dean mournful looks and Jo’s eyes were still red.  Cas was a silent shadow that night, preferring not to talk, or if he did, he spoke in low murmurs.  He kept fiddling with a chain around his neck. 

           Dean was reluctant to go to sleep that night because he didn’t want to wake up and have to face the day but eventually Dean settled on his pallet with Sam and they shifted enough to make room for Cas, and they fell asleep, more or less.

 

 

* * *

 

 

              They were up before the sun, when the air was cool and fresh and the nightly dew still covered the grass.  It was hard for Dean to keep his tears at bay, but he would never admit it.  His family was kind enough not to mention it, though, and he pretended that he couldn’t see their tears either.  Jo was first to say goodbye.  She hugged Cas briefly before throwing herself at Dean and holding on tight, like she could keep the whole of the Confederate army at bay if she just refused to let go.  Dean squeezed her back and stroked her long blonde hair, telling her to be good for her mama.  She punched him and told him to come back home soon.  Ellen made he and Cas hold out their hands and pressed a penny into each of their palms.  Cas tried to protest taking her money but she tutted him and said “It’s for luck.”  She wrapped Dean up tightly and he suddenly felt like a kid again, safe in his Aunt’s arms.  Dean cleared his throat and said “I’ll try to send back wages if I can.”  But Ellen only shook her head and said “Sweetie, don’t you worry about us.  You just take care of yourself, you hear?”  At Dean’s nod, she turned to Castiel and wrapped him up as well.  “And you too.”  She pressed a kiss to Cas’s cheek.

             Sam stood in front of Dean, almost to his chin, and they just stared at each other for a while.  Then Sam slipped a black cord from around his neck and held out some sort of golden charm to him.  “I want you to have this, Dean.  It’s good luck.”

             Dean reached out, tentatively, brushed his fingers against the warm metal.  “Where’d you get that?”

             Sam shrugged.  “Miss Barnes.”

             Dean’s eyebrows shot up.  “The Hoodoo priestess?”

             “Yeah.  She gave it to me, said it was for luck.  I want you to take it.”

             “Sammy, I can’t take this from you—it’s yours.”

             Sam huffed.  “Yeah, and right now you need it more than I do, Dean.  Just take the damn thing, will you?” 

            “Yeah, ok.”  Dean slipped the leather cord over his own head and the warm weight of the gold settled against his breast.  “Thanks, Sammy.  I’ll take good care of it.” 

            “I know you will, Dean.”  Then his arms were full of his baby brother, and Dean couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, though he did try.  The worst part was leaving them, not knowing what might happen while he was gone.  He squeezed his brother tight and inhaled the warm scent of him, the scent of his home; he absorbed all the warmth of his brother, that thing that had grounded him and given him a reason to pick himself up and carry on after their daddy had died.  Sam was the one to let go and step back.  He held his hand out to Cas, man to man now.  When their hands clasped, Sam looked Cas dead in the eye and said “Promise me you’ll keep Dean safe.”  Cas gave one sharp nod, squeezed Sam’s hand, and promised “I will bring him back to you.”  Sam nodded, satisfied, and let go of Cas’s hand.  Before they heaved their satchels on their backs, Sam called out “You make sure you bring yourself back, too!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on dates: In the main body of the fic (1863) Dean & Cas are both 19 years old. This fic stretches from (1854) when they were 10 to the present.

_May, 1854_

            _The fish weren’t biting.  The sun was too bright, the air too hot.  Dean didn’t mind it so much, though. He was comfortable sitting on his log that branched the creek, legs swinging back and forth, hand grasped lightly around the fishing rod.  Mostly, Dean was just happy to have some time to himself.  He loved Sammy and Jo but sometimes they cried too easy and it made him feel bad.  When Aunt Ellen had given him a smack on the behind and told him to run off and catch them some fish for dinner, he’d been more than happy to oblige.  Now he was happily ensconced in the tangle of trees and vines, listening to the cicadas hum.  Dean could feel the sweat rolling down his back under his shirt and he thought to himself happily that he might take a break from his fishing to swim in just a little while._

_He was cheerfully humming a tune to himself when he heard what sounded like a deer crashing through the trees.  Dean halted his swinging motion and listened: he could now make out whimpering and he felt his heart jolt, nervous to see who would come through the trees.  His first thought was an escaped slave and his stomach clenched.  He didn’t want no trouble.  So Dean held his breath and hoped that whoever it was passed by his little hollow.  But Dean was never that lucky._

_The whimpering petered out but the crashing sounds grew clearer until suddenly a boy pushed his way through the trees and stumbled onto the bank of the creek, wiping an arm furiously across his face to erase his tears.  The boy looked to be close to Dean’s age, maybe nine or ten, but Dean had never seen this boy before and he wondered if he was even from around here.  He was dressed in light tan pants that looked well cared for with the exception of new smudges on the front, and a white button up shirt that was definitely not like Dean’s own homespun.  His feet were bare, however, and his dark brown hair was in disarray, with twigs and bits of leaf tangled in the dark strands.  The boy was staring at the water morosely and had as of yet not noticed Dean.  For his part, Dean was afraid to breathe: he hoped to go undetected and that this interloper would carry on his way.  As soon as Dean had that thought, however, the boy raised his eyes, glanced around the clearing, and focused on Dean.  Even from that distance, Dean was struck by how big and blue the boy’s eyes were, enhanced even, by the sheen of tears and the red rims of his eyes.  The boy sucked in a breath when he saw Dean and straightened up, jerking, like a spooked animal._

_Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and, still maintaining eye contact, set his fishing pole carefully down on the log and said “Hey.  You okay?”_

_The boy flinched like Dean had hit him and shifted uneasily on his feet.  “I… um… I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean….” He stuttered and glanced around himself frantically like he expected an attack at any moment.  He was so preoccupied with nerves that he paid no mind to his footing.  His foot caught on a root and with a sharp, aborted attempt to correct his balance, the boy splashed into the creek.  Dean’s eyebrows shot up and he held back a chuckle, barely, at the other boy’s antics, until he saw the boy’s arms flailing, and heard him gasping.  Dean realized with a lurch to his stomach that the fool couldn’t swim.  Dean stood up on his log and launched himself into the water, quickly pulling his way through the slow-moving creek until he reached the other boy.  He pulled his head above water, wrapped an arm around him, and paddled them to the muddy shore.  He dumped the other boy down and the kid heaved, sputtering.  He rolled himself onto his hands and knees and gasped “I… thank you….”  His fine clothes were now utterly ruined by the mud._

_Dean arched his eyebrows at the boy and said “Yeah, you’re okay.”  He scratched his head then asked “Where the hell are you from that you don’t know how to swim?”_

_The boy pushed himself to his feet so Dean followed.  “I um… I’m from the big house but, uh, I’ve never had occasion to swim.  My parents don’t generally permit me outside of the family’s gardens.”  Dean gave the boy a suspicious look and took a step back.  “My name is Castiel Novak.”  The boy held out a hand and Dean took it warily, eyeing the drenched, skinny boy.  He shook quickly then let go.  The boy’s fingers were long and thin, but not overly fragile, in Dean’s grasp, and his skin was cool from the water._

_“You’re from the plantation.  What’s the likes of you doing running around out here?”_

_Castiel met his gaze, eyes sullen again.  “I ran away.”_

_Dean felt a surge of sympathy, or maybe uncommon fondness for the pale, bedraggled boy.  He reached out and pulled a strand of muck from the boy’s hair.  “How come?”_

_The boy averted his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath.  “Something real bad happened.  I tried to stop it, but no one listened to me.  And then… I was punished.”  Another tear rolled down the boy’s cheek, mingling with the creek water.  “I didn’t want to stay there anymore.”_

_Dean nodded sagely.  He understood about bad things and wanting to get away.  “What was it?”  He murmured._

_Castiel shook his head.  “I… I can’t.  It was too terrible.”  He closed his eyes.  “I think I will have nightmares about it for the rest of my life.”  His big blue eyes met Dean’s imploringly.  “Please don’t make me leave.  Can I—can I please stay here for a while?”_

_A surge of protectiveness shot through Dean and he laid a firm hand on Castiel’s shoulder, gripping tight.  “Sure Cas, come on—I’ll teach you how to fish.”  He pulled the boy after him up the rise of the bank and back to his favorite log.  The boy followed willingly after him, though Dean had to help him balance on the old tree trunk.  Once they were firmly seated, the boy cast a furtive glance at Dean and twisted his fingers in the hem of his ruined shirt._

_“You called me Cas.”_

_Dean nodded easily.  “This here is my special spot, Cas, mine—ain’t no place for rich boys.  You wanna stay, you leave your rich boy name at the door.”_

_Castiel smiled then for the first time, and it made such a difference in his face, Dean couldn’t help but grin back.  “I can do that.  I don’t much care for Castiel anyway.”  He smiled shyly now.  “What’s your name?”_

_Dean started kicking his feet back and forth again and said “Dean Winchester.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will have a mix of present day and memories of their past as they were growing up. Hope it works for ya ;)


	3. Chapter 3

_August, 1863_

            They mustered with Captain Singer’s D Company at a camp a couple miles outside of town.  They’d found the camp easily.  The smoke from cookfires hung thick on the still morning air, creating a visible haze from more than a mile off.  The smell of burnt wood, thank God, covered that of the latrines that had been dug at the camp’s furthest edge.  It was early still when Dean and Cas arrived, but the men were awake, seated around campfires and makeshift tents, going about their own business.  It was easy to tell the newly enlisted from the battle-hardened soldiers.  Some, like Dean and Cas themselves, were relatively clean and still fresh-faced, though a few of the younger boys looked frightened out of their wits.  The men that had been with the army for a while had a haggard look about them—rings around their eyes, some who had let their beards grow long for lack of supplies or care.  News from Atlanta had reported severe shortages in supplies for the army, but seeing it and suddenly being thrown at the mercy of those same supply shortages brought the reality home for Dean.  He had never been so thankful to own a good pair of boots in his life, he realized, as he surveyed one older man limp by wearing a ragged pair with the toes cut out.  These veterans were huddled around the campfires and makeshift tents that spanned the field.  The newly enlisted must have been trickling in steadily for some time now because there was only a small crowd of innocent looking boys lined in front of a wagon.  Dean and Cas glanced at each other—one of their usual communications—and Dean shrugged and led the way.  By the time they’d reached it, the other boys had wandered off, leaving only a single scruffy soldier with a squirrelly look about him, whose eye kept twitching.  He pulled a board and sheet of paper in front of him at their approach, commenting “You boys sure are green.  Names?”  Dean shifted uneasily but told the other man his name, and Cas followed when the man raised his eyebrows pointedly like they were already wasting his time.  “My name’s Chuck Shurley, and I am in charge of the supply wagon for this Company.  So don’t get any ideas—I’ll shoot you if you try to steal anything.”  Dean’s eyes went wide but he nodded his acquiescence.  Chuck gave a sharp nod, apparently satisfied and said “Alright, let’s see what we got left for you boys.”  It was quick work to supply them, seeing as D Company didn’t have too much to give, and apparently Dean and Cas were not terribly in need.  Chuck doled out their first supply of rations—hard tack, jerked beef, and a pouch of coffee, saying “Keep it close—these men are hungry.”  Dean quickly tucked the food into his and Cas’s packs, respectively, already grimacing at the hardness of the bread.  Thank the Lord for Ellen and Missouri. 

           Next, Dean was given an older model musket since he didn’t have one of his own to bring.  After a quick inspection of the ancient piece of weaponry, Dean was thankful that at least Cas was outfitted decently.  Dean couldn’t bear the thought of the both of them relying on such old guns to keep them from harm.  Finally, they were given what uniform the Confederacy could spare—a dirty gray hat for each of them, and a gray coat with brass buttons.  Cas’s coat was longer, in the style of a frock, but Dean was handed a much less impressive specimen.  It was obvious that both of their uniforms had been recycled from fallen soldiers, an eerie enough thought without evidence staring them in the face.  Castiel’s coat was worn at the elbows, but unlike his, Dean’s bore a spot of blood on the lower hem.   Dean blanched when he took hold of the cloth, but Chuck only shrugged and said “It wouldn’t have stayed clean long, anyway.”   Dean was afraid to don it—it must be bad luck to wear the clothes of a dead man--but Chuck looked at them expectantly til they slipped the garments on over their shirts.  They were expected to wear their own pants and boots because “the army has no more boots.  Make them last, boys, beceause here on out, they’re the only ones you’ve got, unless you pull them off some poor sod’s feet.”  The very thought made Dean gag.  After they were supplied, Chuck shooed them away, informing them that they would be camped here for a bit, waiting for the rest of the new recruits and then training everyone up before the march north.

            Dean was full of nervous energy as he and Cas made their way through the camp to try to find a place where they could settle their things and wait.  Cas hovered at Dean’s side, silent, but his presence was comforting, as always.

            Passing through camp, Dean noticed that most of the soldiers were busy with their own business, relaxing or writing, or talking with friends.  They looked up at Dean and Cas as they passed but then went back to whatever they’d been doing.  But near the edge of the camp, they caught the attention of a group of men laughing around one of the cookfires.  Conversation ground to a halt as they drew near and Dean could smell trouble in the air.  Sets of eyes flickered over them before ignoring Dean and focusing on Cas.  One man, beefy and broad, with smiling blue eyes and a thick beard let out a low whistle.  “My, my, boys, look what we have here,” He drawled.  “Looks like we got ourselves a pussycat.”  Dean halted, tense, and felt Cas draw up next to him.  The man in question stood from his reclined position and took a step around the fire.  The other men turned their heads to watch.  The man gave Dean a brief smirk before he turned to face Cas, glancing from his head to his toes and back.  Cas remained calm under his scrutiny, but Dean could feel his pulse jump.  Dean knew what Cas must look like to these men—he was tall and lean, almost willowy, clean cut with big blue eyes and pink lips: pretty, and aside from the worn uniform he’d been issued, he was dressed in clothes much finer than anyone else in camp.  The man’s eyes were still smiling but his mouth had turned into a leer.  He leaned toward Cas and whispered theatrically, “You know this is the army, right?”

            Cas kept a straight face and drawled back “I am aware.”

            The man laughed.  “Hoo, hoo.  You’re _aware._ Well done, son, but whatcha doin’ here?”  Cas was calm, and Dean was proud of him for that, but Dean didn’t like how this man was looking at and talking to Cas, and he had to clench his fists and set his jaw to keep from doing something stupid.  The man reached forward and brushed the backs of his knuckles down Cas’s cheek, saying “You’re too… _delicate_ for the army, boy.”  The men around the fire cackled and Dean gave up his tenuous self-control.

            He launched himself at the other man, charging low and tackling him to the ground.  “You shut your mouth!”  Dean commanded, swinging at the man’s stupid laughing face once he was down.  The smack of knuckles against flesh was satisfying so Dean hauled back for another blow.  The other man rolled them before Dean could strike and clipped Dean on the chin as he tried to pin him down.  He was nearly twice Dean’s size but Dean wasn’t going to let himself get held down and beat, so he threw an elbow and rolled with all his strength til he was straddled above the other man again.  The bastard was still grinning.  Dean pulled back for another swing when a pair of hands grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket and hauled him back.  Dean spun, fist raised, but was shoved back.  An imposing older man stood there, dark eyes glaring above a scruffy beard. “Enough!”  Dean’s chest was heaving from exertion and the effort to get himself back under control.  Cas laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, obviously understanding, but Dean shrugged him off and continued to glare.  His opponent’s eyebrow had split and blood trickled down his cheek but aside from that and some dust, he looked no worse for wear.   He was still smirking as he taunted  “Gotta defend Pussycat’s honor?”  Dean lurched forward again and the older man shouted “Attention!”  His gruff voice overrode Dean’s rage momentarily, and he halted.  “Sergeant Lafitte—latrine duty, now!”  He growled, and the smiling man strutted off, giving a salute as he went.  Then the man turned back to Dean and Castiel.  “I’m Captain Singer, your commanding officer.  Now who the hell are you?”  Dean straightened.  “Winchester.”  He stated.  “Novak,” Castiel replied, voice calm as ever.

            “Well, ladies, this is my Company.  There will be no in-fighting here.”

            Dean bristled, “He said--…”

            Singer frowned.  “Does it look like I care?  He hurt your feelings?  Well, boo hoo.  Get over it and grow a pair.  He outranks you, private, so deal with it.  This is a war.”  He observed them both for a moment and Dean wondered what he saw: Dean, dusty and disheveled, bruise forming on his jaw?  Cas pristine and calm as ever?  What a pair.  “You think that little display helped your friend?  I guarantee you’ve made it worse.  Now: sometime in the near future we will all be marching into battle where you will likely be shot and killed.  Name calling just became the least of your problems.”  Singer cast his glare at Cas.  “You understand?”  Cas nodded, once.  “Good.”  He turned back to Dean.  “Winchester.  You’re also on latrine duty.  Go.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

_August, 1863_

 

            The days took on the cadence of left-right-left, left-right-left and Dean figured out pretty early on that for the most part, things were easier when he just fell into line.  Even in his dreams, Dean heard the echoes of “We ain’t headed to the fair, son, this is the army.  Get back into formation!”  And “You hold your rifle like that, you’ll blow your neighbor’s head off!”  It was never ending.  Not the yelling, not the movement, not the heat. 

            Dean was no stranger to hard work and a sense of order, but integration into D Company of Georgia’s 23rd Infantry Regiment was different to anything he’d ever had to do before.  He’d grown up hard, his mother having die when he was five and his father wasting away from illness not long after that, and he’d learned real quick what it meant to be a man and take care of his family.  He’d learned to pull himself up and get things done, but he’d always done it on his own terms, working with what he had.  The army wasn’t like that.  They made him march, sunup to sundown, barking at him when he mis-stepped or held his rifle wrong.  They branded his days with a new routine, took over his life piece by piece, made it more obvious than signing a damn contract that Dean belonged to the Confederacy now.  They marched him and made him stand at attention and haul wood until his clothes stuck to his skin with sweat and he smelled like a damn barn yard.

            Dean was no longer in charge of his own life, as he was constantly reminded.  He was a private and even within this Company, there was a list of people who had the authority to dictate Dean’s actions, not least of them Captain Singer, Sergeant Lafitte, and a scrawny, broad-smiled soldier by the name of Garth Fitzgerald—who, much to Dean’s confusion, was First Lieutenant and second in command for the entire Company.  But it wasn’t all bad.  There were some good guys in D Company and within days Dean found himself a comfortable niche, situated perfectly between Cas, another boy who’d been drafted named Andy, and a veteran gunner who had been relieved of his duty and recently reassigned to Captain Singer who called himself simply “Ash.”

            Dean kept his head down, bit back his sharp words these days, after a whole week of latrine duty resulting from his second run-in with Sergeant Lafitte.  At this point, Dean wasn’t sure whether the man had it out for him or Cas, but he had kept on with his jibes about Cas and he seemed to be doing his damnedest to push Dean to the edge of his patience.

            Lafitte, fondly called “Benny” by the other soldiers was a real piece of work.  His voice had a slower drawl than the others, with a slight twang of the Cajun that made it obvious he wasn’t from around these parts.  He was a big man, gruff, but always smiling, even when he pushed Dean around and hollered in Cas’s face, for all the reaction that got.  It was his job to get the boys ready for the march north and to Dean’s chagrin, Lafitte was the officer in charge of Dean and Cas’s squad, so “Even when we get outta this camp, you boys still belong to me, ya here?”  He’d grinned.

 

* * *

 

 

 

            One evening, about a week into training, they’d been sitting around the cookfire eating bowls of beans and salted pork when Andy had asked how many Companies were in the 23rd.  Benny had laughed, setting aside his food and wiping his hands on his pants, saying “There’s technically four but you see where we are, right now?  They like to pretend that we don’t exist.  The colonel likes to keep us on the fringes, ‘cause we’re a joke to him.”

            Andy had frowned then, shifting uncomfortably.  “Why?”

            “Look around you, son.  We ain’t got nobody special here.  Might as well tell you now so they can’t throw it in your face later, s’pose.  D Company, that’s us, right?  The other units, their officers, they sneer, call us the Dishwater Company.”

            Dean felt his own growl rumble in his chest.  “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

            Benny grinned at him, smile easy as always, but his blue eyes were sharp.  “They say we’re made up of the dregs of Georgia’s backwaters.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but most of you boys had to be dragged outta your houses, right?  That’s what it means, and the whole of the Confederate army knows it.”

            “And Captain Singer, what does he say of this?”  Cas’s deep voice surprised Dean—he’d taken to being even more quiet than usual these days.

            Benny chuckled, shaking his head.  “Bobby could give a rat’s ass what the other units call us.  He does his job and we do our job, and at the end of the day, don’t matter what no pretty boy officer on a horse calls you, ‘s’long as you’re the one walking off the battlefield, right?  So, you hear some of these boys call you that like they’re better, you remind them that dishwater can drown a man good as any and it’s a painful way to go.”

 

 

* * *

 

           

          Things are harder for Cas.  Dean can see that, hell even expected it, though Cas would never admit it.  This is a level of _work_ that Cas’s body is just not used to.  He’s lean but toned, his body caught somewhere between adolescence and manhood.  His shoulders haven’t broadened and the muscles in his arms aren’t really defined yet.  It’s most obvious when all the men strip down and go to the creek to clean up.  Dean knows it’s ‘cause that’s just not how Cas’s life has been.  Of course he’s worked before; growing up with Dean, it would be a miracle if he hadn’t.  They’d run and played, climbed and swam, and worked together on Dean’s farm when Cas could sneak away.  Dean’s thankful now, that Cas had done those things with him, that there’d been the opportunity for Dean to show Cas the grime and the ache of a hard day’s work, but also the pride of blistered hands when the harvest came in and there was enough to feed the family.  Because even though Cas had done what he could, when he could, the fact of the matter is he’d still spent most of his life cooped up in a library somewhere, getting himself an education.  He’d never been subjected to back-breaking labor, day in, day out like Dean, and probably like the rest of the men here.  Cas never says a word about it though, that’s just not how Cas is, and Dean is ever more thankful, because Cas already has it hard enough as it is.  The men haven’t let up since they arrived, and they’ve only gotten worse since drills started.  It’s obvious that Cas isn’t quite like the rest of them, and the other men make sure that Cas never forgets it.  Catcalls of _dandy_ and the new camp favorite _pussycat_ follow him throughout his days.  The only man in camp besides Dean that doesn’t join in is Captain Singer, who addresses him simply as “Novak,” a gruff bark when he wants his attention.  But even this, Cas doesn’t call attention to.  He goes about his business like it doesn’t bother him; Dean knows that it does, but also that Cas has been called worse things, by people much closer to him, so he knows how to let it roll off.  Cas keeps his silence, but that doesn’t mean Dean has to.  Dean hasn’t gotten in any more fist fights since that first day with Benny, but it hasn’t kept him from growling threats under his breath to any man who comes too near. 

            The other men don’t know Cas, not yet, so they don’t know what circumstances brought him here.  And Cas is who he is, there’s no changing his nature: he talks like he belongs in a university and he’s got the manners of an aristocrat, because he is one.  He’s the perfect target for snide remarks.  The other men assume that some sort of punishment brought Cas here; that his father made him join up, or that he’s doing this for some girl. 

            The men aren’t all wrong about Cas.  They’re right that he’s got a soft heart and soft manners, because Cas isn’t a fighter, never has been.  He likes to take care of people, not shoot them.  But Dean will be damned if he lets any one of these sons of bitches take out their frustration and ignorance on Cas, because Dean knows damn well why he’s here.  Dean knows Cas was exempted from service, knows that he could be at home, comfortable in his bed right now, reading newspaper reports about another Southern defeat and all those dead Confederate boys, but he’s not.  He’s here, in the mud and the heat, just like the rest of them, enlisted as a private in the infantry for God’s sake, because it was the only way he could ensure that he’d be able to stay at Dean’s side.  He’s here because of Dean.  Because _Dean_ didn’t have a choice.

            So after that first day, when Cas curls up around his belongings and passes out within minutes of laying his head down, Dean stomped over to Benny and his crew, who were laughing and jeering, and told them that if they didn’t shut their goddamn mouths, he’d punch their teeth down their throats.  They found it amusing, didn’t yet understand how serious Dean really was, and they taunted him too—they never quite crossed the line, like Dean’s sure some of them wanted to—when they told him to go look after his boy.  And Dean could care less at this point, what they say about him for looking out for Cas, because Dean knows that it could be a lot worse and that soon, it probably will be.


	5. Chapter 5

_October, 1854_

            _The first time Dean ever brought Cas home with him, he’d done so with his arm wrapped firmly around Cas’s shoulders and a defiant jut to his chin.  His friend was too skinny, too pale—more so than usual—and his big blue eyes had welled with tears when he’d stumbled into their clearing to find Dean.  Cas had tried to fight him, initially, saying that he couldn’t intrude, didn’t want to be a burden to Dean or his family, but Dean had silenced his protests with a hand over the boy’s mouth and had grasped his wrist firmly and tugged him along the game trail._

_When they reached the house, Ellen opened the door and came out onto the porch, shielding her eyes against the brutal sun and asked “What’s going on now, Dean?  Who’s this?”_

_Dean had stood up tall, pulled Cas firmly against his side and said “This is my friend Cas.  And he needs something to eat.”_

_Ellen’s brows jumped up her forehead and she gave Dean a stern look.  He rarely took so direct a tone with her, and she usually smacked him for it.  But he was not going to back down and he was not going to apologize.  Ellen gave Cas a cursory glance—he refused to raise his eyes—and she said “And where is Cas’s family?”  This was why Dean had never brought Cas home before.  With the clothes he wore and the way he spoke, it was easy to see he shouldn’t be playing with the likes of Dean._

_Cas flinched under Dean’s hand and that was enough.  Dean tugged his friend closer, looked Ellen dead in the eye and said “Cas’s family locked him in his room for two days without food.”  Her hard look fell away instantly.  Her brows pulled together and her mouth went tight.  She gave a sharp nod, then, and said “Alright Dean, you bring that boy in here, and we’ll get him fed.”_

_Dean had never loved Ellen more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, all. But sometimes the memories will be shorter and I want to keep them as separate chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder that archive warnings and tags apply for every chapter.

_September 1863_

 

            The roads were muddy, choked up from an unseasonable surge of rainstorms, and the news came too late because the rider’s horse went lame just south of Atlanta.  When he did arrive, sometime in the middle of the night, it was during another brutal storm; the thunderheads had been piled high all afternoon, bearing down on the camp and then opening mercilessly upon D Company early in the evening.  Captain Singer had taken pity on them and let them retire to their tents and bedrolls after a nasty spate of lightning had struck just outside of camp.

 

 

            It was a normal day, insignificant.  Dean’s feet hurt and he was wet and muddy, but so was everyone else, and there was nothing to be done about it now except to stay in what shelter they were able to muster up between them.  It wasn’t a real tent, but the stretch of canvas above their heads and the bedrolls pushed together for comfort was the best that they could do.  Dean was squeezed between Cas and Andy while they, Ash, and even Garth, played a game of cards and waited for the rain to subside.  That morning, they’d been knee-deep in mud and maneuvers, and it was just like any other day of training.

            Not many men heard the rider come in during the night—the hoof beats of his fresh mount were drowned under the crashing of the thunder.  Most of the men were sleeping, eager to erase the discomforts of the day with unconsciousness.  Captain Singer received the messenger, gave him food and water, arranged to have the horse looked after.  The news was devastating.  Singer swallowed his sympathy for his Company and called for his officers.

            It was pitch black, except for the flashes of lightning, when Benny roused them.  “Muster up, soldiers.  We’re marching north—now.”

            Dean was groggy, still trapped somewhere between dreaming and wakefulness as he packed his things and formed ranks.  But not Cas.  He was bright eyed and alert as ever; with the exception of looking like a bedraggled rat, he appeared battle ready.

            It wasn’t much of a speech.  Singer stood at the head of the column and bellowed above the booming thunder that there had been a battle at Chickamauga in the latest attempt to retake Chattanooga.  The Union troops had retreated.  Though the Confederates were digging in and taking advantage of their new position, their line had been decimated.  D Company was charged with sweeping west and scouting the countryside before meeting up with the rest of their regiment, already marching to meet General Michael Cohen’s Southern Army.

            It was cold and dark and under any other circumstances they would not have been marching through the storm.  But the rider had been late.  The battle at Chickamauga had been two—almost three—days ago, and the Southern Army had been ragged, desperately trying to reorganize and fortify their positions.  There was no telling what had occurred since then.  All they could do was march through the night and pray that the lines held until reinforcements arrived.

 

 

            Dean hadn’t wanted to join the army.  He still didn’t want to be there, marching in formations toward a battle he’d wanted no part of.  But life in the camp had taught him that this was reality: drafted or not, he was with the army now, like the rest of the boys, and it was his job to make the most of what he had.  This new development, fighting spreading from North Carolina and across the border into Georgia, was a bit of a wake-up call.  This still wasn’t his war, but if something wasn’t done to stop the Northern march, Georgia could very well be overrun, and Dean _did_ have a stake in that.  He knew for a fact that armies don’t care whether you’re innocent or not when they plow through like a plague, burning and pillaging.  And all that still mattered to Dean was settled on a little farm just west of his current location.  His father’s land and his family.  Again, Dean cursed the situation that forced him to leave Ellen, Jo, and Sam without him.  They weren’t helpless, none of ‘em.  Never had been.  But leaving them—Jo and Sam only 14—twisted Dean’s gut and made him sick.  So, if marching north was gonna keep them safe, he’d damn well do it.

 

* * *

 

 

            They marched through the night, the sky flashing with forks of lightning that occasionally struck in the distance.  The thunder rumbled so malevolently at times as to shake the earth under their weary feet.  At times they slogged through mud deep enough to seep over the tops of their boots to squelch under their feet, stinking and cold between their toes.  The green fields were transformed into marshes, the earth turning swampier still with each soldier’s tread.  The rain didn’t let up, but continued to pour buckets down upon them.  It ran in steady rivulets down the back of Dean’s shirt, plastered his shirt to his skin and his coat offered little protection against the chill.  His skin was clammy, prickled with goosebumps despite the constant movement.

            The rain stopped with the dawn, but the soldiers did not.  In the golden early morning light, Dean was able to take stock of his companions.  They’d all made it through the night, though a few of the men looked like they were barely on their feet.  Andy must have tripped sometime during the night because his uniform had splotches of mud that could not be accounted for otherwise, and his face was wan.  Benny, Garth, and Bobby marched at the front of the line, seemingly unaffected by the torrent they’d endured the whole night through.  It was at times like these when it was most obvious that they were veteran soldiers, times like these when Dean realized just how green he and Cas and Andy, and the Fischer boys were.  Weeks of training could not prepare them for a march like this, sand gritting between their toes, water and mud soaking through their boots.  Dean could feel the blisters already forming and feared that he might be limping by the time they made it to the front.  Cas marched at his side, stoic despite the dark bruises under his eyes and the rivulets of rainwater trailing down his face and neck.

 

* * *

 

 

 

            They were weary still and the day was hot.  The grove of trees was a welcome surprise, as was the creek they could hear gurgling within the shaded depths.  The men marched straight in, eager for relief from the over-bearing sun.  They were near the cheerily-flowing water when the first gunshot rang out, startling in its immediacy.  Dean had a moment to suck in a breath before a barrage of gunfire opened upon them and his Company scattered.

            He froze.  The world continued around him, almost in slow motion, blurs of color spinning around him—time measured in the beating of his heart.  A bullet whizzed by his head and it brought him back to the present. Dean flinched, his stupor giving way to the instinctual desire to make himself smaller in the face of attack. The sounds of his companions shouting gave him the push he needed to move.  He became aware, all at once, that there were other men within the trees, dodging in and out of sight, firing at Dean’s Company.  When a blue-clad body dashed between the trees within his line of sight, Dean lifted his gun to his shoulder and shot.  He didn’t have time to consider that it was the first time in his life that he’d fired at a human being; he dug in his ammunition pouch for another cartridge and powder pack.  He whirled, slamming his back against a tree for cover while he reloaded his rifle with shaking hands.  He cast his eyes around the thicket while his hands worked by rote, searching for Cas and the others.  Over the roaring in his ears, he could hear Bobby shouting orders, but they wouldn’t filter into coherence in his brain.  Benny dashed past him, discharging his rifle and then pulling a hand gun from the slot of his lower back to follow up the first shot.  The agonized cry and following thud indicated his success.  Dean couldn’t find Cas among the trees in his frantic scan.  Another possibility dropped into his stomach like a lead weight and he lowered his eyes to the ground, terrified to find the prone body of his friend.  Thank God he didn’t see him there either. 

            With the new ball in the rifle, Dean peeked around the tree and charged forward, aiming for the first man who wore blue. 

            It was a blur; Dean was unaware of how much time had passed.  It could have been minutes or hours; time had no meaning on a battlefield.  All that mattered was to keep moving, keep shooting, keep breathing.  Dean did those things, body moving in a rhythm before only known to him in the drudgery of a drill—the movements didn’t fit him yet.  He wasn’t fluid; his movements were staccato and rough around the edges.  He’d stumbled through the underbrush, aiming, shooting (sometimes missing) and then repeating until the only men left standing were the boys in ragged, mismatched gray and Bobby was calling a halt to the shooting.

            Dean paused, let the rifle slide down his shoulder, and took stock of the woods; bodies decked in dirty blue uniforms lay scattered in the verdant underbrush, splashes of red a grisly counterpoint against the fresh earth.

            The rustling of leaves and labored breathing of the soldiers was more nerve-wracking than any silence.  Dean cast his eyes around again, frantically trying to locate Cas.  Dean stood in the open, shocked and panicked, eyes darting frantically—it was a stupid thing to do.  Benny shouted for him to get down and Dean whirled, raising his rifle.  Too late.  He heard the discharge and felt the fire ripping through his arm near simultaneously.  He reeled back, wounded, and was shocked by the red spatter that exploded from the Union soldier who slumped to the ground, still holding his rifle.  Dean turned confused eyes behind him to see where the shot had come from that had taken out the soldier that had meant to kill him.  Near 50 yards back, a tuft of dark hair raised itself over a log and Cas pushed himself from his position on the ground, hoisting his gun over his shoulder.  Dean stared, utterly bewildered, as Cas approached, his eyes wide and lips pressed in a thin line.  Benny, Bobby, and Garth had already wandered over to the dying man and when Cas drew near, he and Dean joined them. 

            The man’s eyes were shut but the lids still fluttered spasmodically.  His body convulsed.  His throat was torn open, ruined by the lead ball that had ripped through it only seconds before.  Blood pulsed steadily from the wound and bubbled out of the man’s mouth.  His mouth opened and shut several times, almost as though he was trying to say something, but only a harsh gasping sound ever came forth.  They stood there, mesmerized by the ghastly sight as the man died.  Blood pooled in the grass around him and Dean thought that he might be sick.

            “Novak,” Bobby addressed, eyes raising to Cas’s from the now-dead man, “where in the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”

            Dean turned to look at his friend.  Cas was blank faced, stoic as ever; with the exception of dirt smudged down his front, he was unblemished and apparently utterly unharmed.  Cas had been staring not at the dying man, but at Dean, and only raised his eyes when the Captain addressed him.  “I’ve never done that before, sir,” He rumbled.

            “You just shot a man from near 80 yards away.” Bobby barked, incredulous.

            Cas gave a short nod.  “Yes, sir.”  The others were staring at him now, too, like he was some sort of new creature, like he wasn’t the same man they’d been living with for near on two months now, catcalling Pussycat every time he walked by.  They were all caught in a seemingly-endless staring contest until Garth cleared his throat, looking around cautiously.  “Looks like that was a scouting party, Captain.  I think we probably got ‘em all, but we should likely be moving on, just in case.”

            “Right.  Some of the men are injured, too.  They need tendin’.” Benny supplied.

            “Alright troops,” Bobby hollered.  “Search the fallen—make sure they ain’t any of our boys, and while you’re at it, take any supplies you can find.  Then let’s get the hell outta these woods.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for child abuse.

 

_May, 1857_

 

 

_The air smelled like sun drenched magnolias and fresh-turned earth.  The air was warm.  The long blades of grass tickled his cheeks as they swayed in the breeze.  There was nowhere else he’d rather be than lying in the open field under the endless blue sky with Dean’s shoulder brushing his._

_Dean rolled over onto his belly and plucked a blade of grass, twisting it in his fingers.  “Hey Cas… tomorrow is your birthday.”_

_Castiel chuckled.  “Yes, Dean, I am aware.”  He noticed Dean still wasn’t looking at him, so he reached his hand out, the backs of his fingers barely grazing Dean’s arm.  “What’s wrong?”_

_Dean snorted, shaking his head at himself.  “Nothin’, Cas.  It’s just, well….”  He pushed himself into a sitting position and he looked so anxious that Castiel followed his movements and did the same.  Dean scraped a hand through his hair and looked down at the grass in his hand.  “I wanted to give you something.  I know you have everything you could want at home, and nothing the likes of me gives to you would matter, but, well….”  Dean reached into his pocket and closed his fist around something.  “Hold out your hand.”  Castiel did as Dean said, brows furrowed in confusion.  The warm brush of Dean’s fingers pulled away to leave cool metal.  A plain brass button sat in his palm.  He stared at it for a moment then closed it tightly in his own hand.  He raised his eyes and Dean turned away quickly, a blush coloring his cheeks.  “It’s stupid.”_

_“No.”  Castiel reached out and pulled Dean close for a hug.  The other boy relaxed in his arms and returned the embrace.  “This means everything.”_

_Dean chuckled.  “It’s just a button, Cas.”_

_Castiel shook his head and buried his nose into Dean’s shoulder, mumbling “No, it isn’t.”  Dean remained silent, simply holding Castiel back for another few moments before Castiel pulled away.  “Where did you find this one?”_

_Dean smirked and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.  “Oh, uh, that one… I cut that one off my good Sunday shirt.”  He chuckled.  “Ellen cuffed me good when she found out, too.”  A small smile curled Dean’s lips.  “Only, I wanted to give you something Cas, but well…”  He held his arms out helplessly.  “What does someone like me have to give that you’d want?”  Dean shook his head ruefully.  “Then I remembered you telling me a long time ago that you collect buttons and I remembered because I thought it was funny.  A boy who has everything collecting buttons.  So—you can put that genuine Winchester button in your collection now.”  Dean flashed him a devilish grin._

_Castiel put the button safely in his own pocket.  “Now I’ve got a piece of you that you can’t take back.”  He murmured.  Dean laughed and pushed Castiel’s shoulder until he tumbled backwards into the lush grass.  Dean flopped back down next to him.  “You know, you and Missouri are the only ones who know I collect them.”_

_Dean nudged Castiel’s shoulder with his own.  “That’s ‘cause no one else would believe the rich man’s son would want to be collectin’ cast offs.”_

_Castiel allowed a soft smile to curve his lips and he closed his eyes, content to settle back in for a long while.  “Shows how much they know.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_When Castiel returned home that evening, his father was waiting for him.  James, their footman, relayed the message the moment Castiel stepped foot inside the door.  The man’s face was calm and his voice without inflection, but Castiel wasn’t a fool.  He made his way to his father’s library, back going rigid and face going blank as he walked down the hallway.  He gave a perfunctory knock on the door—his father’s voice commanded him to enter—and he came to stand in front of his father, who was reading a newspaper and drinking a brandy.  Castiel stood at attention, hands behind his back, head held high, and waited.  The clock on the mantle ticked.  Castiel fought to hold still.  His father ignored him for near ten minutes before he finally folded his paper and set it aside.  He stood to his full height and looked down on Castiel._

_“I have been informed that you have made friends with one of the…farmer boys.”  Castiel remained silent.  “I expect an answer from you, Castiel.”_

_“Yes, father.”_

_“Is that where you were today?”_

_“Yes, father.”_

_His father’s face remained impassive, eyes flat.  “You will not see him again.”  Castiel struggled not to fidget under his father’s sharp gaze.  “How many times must we teach you, Castiel, not to associate with… those that are beneath you?”  Castiel remained silent.  “_ Well?!”

_Castiel flinched, cleared his throat.  “At least one more time, father.”_

_His father went deathly silent.  “You_ dare _to sass me, boy?”  The backhand took Castiel by surprise, the blow solid enough that it knocked him to the ground.  “There’s something wrong inside you, Castiel.  You’re broken.”  His father took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders.  Castiel made no attempt to rise.  “You’re soft.  Look at you.”  He sneered.  “You will remedy this, Castiel, or by God I will, do you understand me?”_

_“Yes, father.”  Castiel croaked._

_“You will not see that boy again, or I will have him dealt with.”  Then Castiel’s father swept from the room and left Castiel lying on the floor, cheek already swelling and darkening.  But the tears didn’t come.  Not that day.  And never again._


	8. Chapter 8

_September, 1863_

 

 

            Cas matched him step for step, silent and tense, as they marched to a safer place to regroup.  A couple of the men were side-eyeing Cas but they didn’t say anything.  At the moment, Dean didn’t even care.  His mind was still caught up in the woods, his thoughts focused on the way that Cas’s bullet had ripped through the Northern soldier in almost the same instant the soldier’s bullet had torn up the flesh of Dean’s upper arm.  He still wasn’t sure how to process the calm, controlled way Cas had pushed himself to his feet and stalked toward the body of the dying man.  His eyes had been regretful; probably no one but Dean could ever tell—but his jaw had been set firmly.  The other men teased Cas about being too sweet but he knew none of them understood just how seriously Cas believed in the sanctity of all human life.  The fact that he’d just snatched one of those lives bloodily, with a calm assurance that Dean did not feel, was disconcerting.

            Dean made no mention of the man, or of Cas’s amazing aim and near-perfect timing.  Instead, he allowed Cas to guide him to a spot where he could seat himself on a moss-covered tree trunk.  “We need to treat your wound,” Cas murmured, voice even lower than usual.  Dean gave a short nod and didn’t try to resist when Cas pushed the sleeve gently up his arm, peeling the cloth away from the ragged furrow of bloody flesh.  Cas sighed.  “You’re lucky.  The bullet only grazed you.”  Dean watched with curious eyes as Cas pulled supplies from his satchel.  He pressed close to Dean, bowing his head slightly to get a better look at the wound as he swiped a wet cloth gently over the flesh, cleaning the mess of blood away so that he could see the damage more clearly. Dean watched the play of Cas’s true thoughts on his face: the involuntary twinge of the muscle of his left eye, the barely-noticeable downturn of his mouth, the fine single line that traced between his brows.  He was intense in his concentration, but his hands were gentle as ever as he began the painful process of closing the wound.  His motions were methodical, fingers nimble and steady as he pierced Dean’s ruined skin with the needle, tied the thread off.

            “Where’d you learn to do this, Cas?”  Dean whispered, loathe to break through the strange, close bubble that surrounded them and held them separate from the remainder of the camp.

            “Slave quarters.” Cas’s blue eyes flashed to Dean’s for a moment, significant regardless of the brevity of the contact, before he dropped his eyes once more to the task.  “Missouri was teaching me.”

            Dean nodded understandingly and dropped the subject.  He bit his lip against the sharp tug of skin when Cas tied and cut the last stitch before taking a step back to reach into his satchel once more. 

            When he bent over, the leather cord he wore swung lose from the collar of his shirt and the light of the setting sun caught against the dull matte of the metal, the shine worn from years of rubbing against skin.  Dean darted his hand forward, fingers snaking around the cord and pulling slightly—Cas straightened immediately and took that single step back into Dean’s space; Dean could feel the heat of him all down his front.  Cas placed a hand against Dean’s knee to steady himself.  Dean’s eyes widened when he realized what he held in the palm of his hand.  Dean allowed himself to become reacquainted with the charm—the rough skin of his hands brushing lightly over the trinket of metal, warmed by Castiel’s body and faded from a gleaming bronze to a chocolate gray.  “Cas—you still have this?”  Dean asked, still holding the charm and through it, Castiel, close.  He raised his eyes to Cas’s face which was open, honest, and earnest as always when it was just the two of them. 

            “Of course, Dean.” Cas rumbled, lifting his hand to wrap around Dean’s that held the button that he’d been gifted six years before, when they were both still boys.  There were so many things Dean wanted to say, so many questions he wanted to ask in that moment.  _Why?_ Rattled in his brain, echoing, reverberating, amplifying.  But he didn’t ask any questions; he didn’t need to.  Cas’s eyes had always been too honest, and told him, unashamedly, all Dean ever needed to know.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The camp was silent but for the sounds of the supply horses shuffling against the grass in their sleep and the soft sounds of the soldiers: groaning as they rolled over on the hard, wet ground, sniffling and coughing in their sleep.  The brush of cloth over shifting bodies, pressed close together to retain warmth in the cold night air. 

            They’d lost two men that day.  Barty had been dead when they’d found his body lying sprawled over a tangle of tree limbs close to the creek, but Johnny had still been alive.  They’d done what they could for him, but the harsh truth was that their unit was not manned with a medic and Johnny’d taken a lead ball to the stomach.  Even with his hands pressed to the hole, blood had pulsed around them, soaking his shirt until the boy, barely 17, was pale and shaking with the effort of clinging to life.  When he’d finally let go and his eyes had fallen half-shut, Castiel had offered up a prayer that he would find his way quickly to Heaven, where he could be at peace.  He’d been taken too early in his life, maybe, but then perhaps so had Barty.  Perhaps they were all dancing a fickle tune for the Reaper.

            Castiel had held himself together through the long hours of the day: through the ambush and the rush of adrenaline that had flooded his veins, the fear of death and losing Dean, the strangely cold calm that had settled over him when he’d dropped to the ground on his belly and lined up his sights.  He’d stood tall through the grim task of searching the fallen for survivors and relieving the dead of their no-longer-needed supplies.  He’d even managed to keep his emotions in check through the process of cleaning and mending Dean’s bullet wound, a trial he’d almost failed at when he’d pulled the sleeve aside and seen the rent flesh and seeping blood of Dean’s arm.

            Now, with the warm press of Dean’s body against his within their sleeping rolls, a reminder that they’d both made it through their first skirmish, Castiel let himself go.  He’d held the fear so tightly within him that relaxing the tension of it made his whole body quiver.  He choked back the sob that had been steadily clawing its way up his throat since the moment he saw the unknown soldier level his rifle at Dean.

            Castiel had never wanted to be the kind of man who could take a life without flinching; he’d seen the sort of cruelty bred from this very coldness.  He’d been determined, since his childhood, that he wanted to help people, not harm them.  And Castiel did mourn the life of the man he’d shot so ruthlessly that day.  It was a shame that any men had to be dying in this bloody, foolish war.  Castiel hoped that this man—the soldier whose name he didn’t know and never would know, whose life Castiel had snuffed with a deliberate, well-aimed shot, who Castiel had left, cold and pale on the forest floor—would find his way to Heaven.  The taking of this man’s life was another scar upon Castiel’s heart—he knew there would be countless more before his toils were through—and yet Castiel could not regret his actions. 

            The idea of Dean, dead in his stead, lying alone and forsaken on the ground somewhere to be ravaged by the elements and the carrion creatures, was unbearable.  Castiel had known what the price would be when he made the decision to enlist in the Confederate army.  He was man enough to admit to himself that if he had the decision to make again, even a hundred times over, he would make the same choice.  He would line up his sights and pull the trigger and tear that man’s throat out with hot lead if it meant that Dean got to live another day.  Castiel would do it gladly and he promised himself then and there, while he shivered and shook under the too-thin blanket, that he would never apologize for anything he did in the service of keeping  
Dean alive.  Never.

            As the night slipped deeper toward early morning, exhaustion finally overwhelmed Castiel and his eyelids drooped shut without leave.  Castiel refused to allow himself the chance to question what kind of man these convictions made him.  When it eventually swallowed him, Castiel was thankful for oblivion.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even call this a chapter. Sorry it's short. I promise there will be more either tonight or tomorrow. But it's important for the flow of this story to keep the past & the present in separate chapters.

_April 1854_

_Castiel was ten when he asked the minister how people could be slaves if they were all God’s children.  He’d been so innocent, standing there in front of the cross, desperate for answers.  The minister had laid his hand gently on Castiel’s head and told him “You’re young still, child, but later you will understand.  This is how God meant the world to be, and it’s all for the best.”_

_Castiel didn’t lose his faith that day.  It was nothing so dramatic.  He still went to church, he still trusted in God.  But he learned better to pick out lies.  And he learned how to keep his peace._


	10. Chapter 10

_September, 1863_

 

            The pungent scent of death hung thick on the air miles before camp.  They poured into the valley, tired and ragged, to join with the rest of their regiment and reinforce the men who had dug into the hills above Chickamauga.  The army was ragged, had been ripped to shreds by the Union boys before they’d retreated.  Banners were planted, dirty and worn, across the field and ridge of hills, announcing the remains of so many units that had been funneled here to shore up the defense.  Just on the other side of the state line, staring into Georgia, the Union army was organizing in Chattanooga, regrouping and gaining strength.  And every single man in that camp, ever single Confederate man, knew that soon the Union was going to force another confrontation.  And this bedraggled group of ragged men gathered here was the only defense between the entire Union and the gateway to the South. 

They were still burying bodies.  Men and some women moved like shadows through the remaining corpses, lining them up, loading them into the wagons.  They dumped them in deep trenches at the edges of the battlefield.  Dean thought he was going to be sick.  He’d never seen so many dead men before, laid out, blood spattered across the grass, ripe in the sun of late September.

            Large canvas tents had been spread across the right flank of the field and the cries of the wounded and dying still rent the air.  Dean cast his eyes that way but looked away quickly when he saw a man rush out of one of the tents, a bloody bag in his arms.  He didn’t want to know what was in it.  _Didn’t._ Dean’s arm hurt like a bitch; his shoulder was on fire from the bullet wound and the continuous marching.  Though Cas had cleaned the wound and stitched it up to the best of his ability, Dean was still worried.  He’d been trying not to think of it, but seeing the medical tents now had his insides churning.  He wasn’t really the praying type, but right now he was hoping to God that he didn’t get an infection.  Here even a graze could become a death sentence.

            Cas marched silently, stoically in front of him.  Since the skirmish in the woods, the men had been looking at Cas funny, suddenly wary of the “Pussycat” they’d been name-calling for the last month or so.  Dean still didn’t know where that skill had come from; Cas had used his rifle before they’d started training—he’d been hunting with both Dean and his own father—but he’d never been a crack shot.  Dean couldn’t account for it and that was another thing he was trying not to think too hard on. 

 

* * *

 

 

            Bobby and Garth went to meet with the other officers for orders and left the Company in Benny’s hands.  While they waited for further instruction, the men took the opportunity to settle down to rest their feet and dig through their packs for food.  Dean grumbled when he realized all he had left was some hardtack and salt-pork but he was hungry and now wasn’t the time to be picky, so he bit into the board-like bread and tore a chunk off.  It felt like his teeth might come with it.  Cas sprawled next to him and took a long draw from his canteen, sighing.  All of the men were exhausted.  The march through the storm had been bad enough but then the ambush had been frightening for all and demoralizing for some.  Andy had been shaken up ever since, and no amount of soothing words from his companions could calm him.  “I stared death in the face… there’s no coming back from that.”  He replied.  His words stuck with Dean.  They were simple, profound, but he sure as hell hoped they were wrong.  What if Andy was right, though?  What if there was no coming back from this war, even if he and Cas managed to survive it?

            Before this moment, Dean had never realized how big an army really was.  He’d heard about the clash of men by the hundreds and thousands, he’d read about it in the papers, but he’d never _seen_ it before today.  Even the skirmish in the woods hadn’t been as real as this moment was, sitting in the middle of a blood-drenched battlefield, knowing in his bones that this was his future.  Dean was going to be adding more dead boys to the list, or else he was going to become one.  The thought turned his stomach more than the lingering smell did, and he put his food back in his satchel. 

 

 

            It wasn’t too long before Bobby returned, telling them to form up and dig in.  The men who had tents pitched them, and the ones that didn’t arranged their belongings the best they could, and then D Company was put to work digging ditches.

 

 

            Dean’s hands were blistered before the sun went down and they were relieved of their duty for the night.  Thankfully, there were enough soldiers in the fields of Chickamauga that none of Bobby’s men had to pull perimeter detail for the night.  It was just as well.  They were dead on their feet by the time they were allowed to return to their camp.

            Dean was exhausted, but he couldn’t seem to make himself sleep, and most of the other men were still awake and singing songs to pass the time.  So Dean lay atop his bedroll, near enough to the fire to see, and pulled a sheaf of paper, a pen, and some ink from his bag (Garth had loaned him the pen and ink) and he settled in to write a letter.  Cas sat next to him, silent, and poked the fire with a stick, occasionally adding more kindling.  Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment while he debated what to write.  The fire cast Cas’s face into high relief—the planes of his cheeks and his nose were bright, golden, and the fire picked the highlights out in his hair.  But his eyes were drowned in shadow and Dean couldn’t tell what he was thinking.  He turned his attention back to the paper and began:

_Dearest Ellen, Jo, and Sammy,_

_This is the very first letter that I ever wrote, but I guess you all knew that.  I’m not sure what to say because I can’t say much, but I can tell you this: me and Cas, we’re both alright.  I hope that you can take some comfort from these words even though I wish I could give you more._

_I miss you all.  And I miss home.  Cas won’t say it but he misses you too._

_We’ve been marching for what feels like forever already but we’ve finally stopped, at least for the night.  The men are singing Dixie.  I don’t mind it but Cas hates that song and he won’t sing it._

_I know that you won’t listen to me.  Hell, you never do.  But try not to worry about us.  We’re staying safe and we will make it back to you.  You take care of yourselves._

_Love,_

_Dean & Cas_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't gotten much feedback on this story so I just wanted to say that comments are welcome and I'd love to hear what you guys think about it. Thanks :)

_January, 1858_

 

_There wasn’t a whole lot to be done during the winter months: it wasn’t often that they got snowed in, but the fields had frosted over and the plant life lay dormant until the still long-off blush of spring.  The weather was bad enough that if it wasn’t raining, it was sleeting, or snowing, and either way, it turned the roads to mud that was a pain to try to traverse.  Going into town wasn’t high on Dean’s list of priorities, though, considering they had little to no money at the best of times.  But the Winchester-Harvelle clan didn’t need fancy things to get by; they managed all on their own._

_Dean and Sam and Jo collected firewood when it was needed and Dean liked to chop it behind the house in the otherwise still, quiet air of winter.  He loved the smell the best; the woodsy smoke blowing from the chimney on the house, mixing with the fresh, clean scent of winter.  It filled him with a peace that he rarely felt and so he didn’t mind.  He went hunting too, sometimes, with Cas and Sam at his sides.  Cas had a fancy rifle, a gift from his grandfather before he passed, that his father had grudgingly taught him to use.  Cas didn’t like killing but he was quiet and sneaky and he was a good shot when he wanted to be, and he helped Dean catch dinner on more than one occasion.  Mostly, Sam watched.  Dean brought him along because Sam needed to learn how to shoot, and to hunt.  The “just in case…” was never said, but they both understood it anyhow.  Dean didn’t like to think of the idea of him dying, or fading away slowly like their daddy had, or worse, of Sammy leaving him.  But Dean also didn’t have the luxury of pretending the world wasn’t a nasty place, either, and he knew all those things were possibilities.  And he’d be damned if he left his family unprepared for such an eventuality.  Sometimes, when it was just the two of them, Dean let Sammy carry the gun, and then he’d help his little brother line up his sights, position his arms correctly, and when it was the right time, he’d whisper “Shoot.”  And Sammy would.  Sometimes he hit his target, and they could haul home a rabbit, or a bird.  And sometimes he would miss and Dean would lay a comforting hand on Sam’s back and tell him that it was alright, that he would hit the mark next time._

_It was a particularly cold day; the wind was biting as it blew across the fields and whipped into the branches of the trees at the edge of the woods, carrying flurries with it.  Dark, fluffy clouds were piling up on the horizon, and Dean knew that there was gonna be a real storm; the sharpness of the air promised a hard freeze but they’d prepared themselves well ahead of time.  Ellen and Jo had filled jugs with water in case the well froze over and Dean and Sam had hauled enough wood to keep them warm for at least a week._

_Cas was there, sitting at the table with Sam and Jo when Dean pushed through the door and shook off the snow dusting his shoulders.  Ellen was at the stove, cooking up some biscuits to go with the stew that was bubbling over the fire.  It was dark outside already; the sun was still up, normally would be for a couple more hours, but it had been blocked out by the storm, turning the day a steel gray.  Dean wandered over to the table and plopped himself down next to Jo.  A book and some papers were spread across the space between Dean’s family.  Cas looked up from the book and smiled sweetly at him. Jo leaned into Dean’s side as he shifted closer to get a look at the paper she was working on and he brushed a hand over her hair.  “Watcha working on, kiddo?”  Dean murmured._

_Jo furrowed her brows in concentration and scribbled another word onto the paper.  “Doing my writing practice.”  She answered before shoving the paper across the table for Cas to read.  The boy looked it over for a moment before nodding and praising “Very good, Jo.  Your writing is improving.”_

_Jo grinned. “Thanks, Cas.”_

_Dean watched for a moment as Sam & Cas bent their heads back over the book.  Dean wasn’t jealous that they could all read when he couldn’t, or that Jo and Sam went to school while Dean stayed home to work.  Instead, he was proud that he could provide those opportunities for his family.  Proud that Sammy and Jo were learning so much.  Cas had offered, on more than one occasion, to teach Dean his letters, but Dean had always blushed and tried to shift Cas’s attention, mumbling that it would be a waste of Cas’s time.  Cas argued with him every time, but he never forced the subject.  Didn’t stop him from practicing with Sam and Jo.  Or from reading aloud to Dean when it was just he and Cas, lounging in some sunny field. _

_Cas moved his finger slowly over the page and Sam mumbled the words aloud, glancing occasionally at Cas for approval.  Before Cas could turn the page, though, Dean reached out to stop him.  “Hey Cas.  It’s pretty bad outside.  It’s not that I don’t want you here—ya know I wish you could stay—but maybe you should be heading back?”_

_Cas frowned for a moment and glanced over his shoulder to look at the darkened window.  He let out a sigh and his thin shoulders slumped.  “You’re right, Dean.  I suppose I should be going.”  He pushed the book closer to Sam and stood, but was stopped mid-movement by the whip-crack voice of Ellen, who said “You sit right back down there, Cas.  You must be crazy if you think I’m letting you walk home in that weather without at least getting some warm food into you first.”  Cas opened his mouth to protest and Ellen pointed a spoon at him, effectively silencing him.  “Supper is almost done.  You can wait a bit longer.  The weather will hold.”_

_Cas crossed his arms.  “And if it doesn’t?”_

_Ellen’s frown softened.  “Don’t you worry yourself, hon.  We’ll make sure you get back alright.”  Ellen flashed a meaningful look at Dean and he nodded._

_“’Course Cas.  After supper, I’ll walk you back home.”_

_Cas let out a breath and resettled himself on the bench.  “Thank you.  I appreciate it.  I really didn’t want to leave yet.”  Dean watched on as Cas resumed helping Sam and Jo with their school lessons until Ellen announced that supper was finished and they all cleared the table to make room for the steaming bowls of stew._


	12. Chapter 12

_June, 1859_

_“Dean, if I tell you something, do you promise never to tell another soul?”  Cas’s eyes were dark, mournful when he looked up at Dean through the fringe of his messy hair.  His voice was hesitant and his fingers were twisted up in the fishing line; he wasn’t even trying anymore._

_“Sure, Cas, you know I’d never tell.  What is it?”_

_Cas took a deep breath, blew it out, and his shoulders slumped forward.  “I… I’ve had doubts about my family and… well, um, the plantation, and a lot of things, for a few years now.”_

_“Ok…?”_

_Cas sighed.  “Dean, I… well, I found something.  A, um… a pamphlet of sorts.  And I was curious, so I read it.  And it made so much sense to me.  It said all of the things I’ve been thinking, but I know I could never say it out loud, not to anyone else.  And it’s been… haunting me.”_

_Dean inched closer to his friend.  “Cas, I don’t understand.  What’s this all about?”_

_Cas’s voice was very quiet now.  “It was written by an abolitionist, Dean.  I….”  Cas huffed.  “I don’t hold with slavery, Dean.  I want it to end.”_

_“Cas….”  Dean reached a hand out and Cas flinched back, like he expected to be struck.  Dean’s hand froze in the air above his shoulder.  “Hey, look at me.”  Cas turned wary eyes on Dean.  “You think I’m gonna hit you?”  Dean shook his head, sad.  “You really think I could hurt you, Cas?”_

_Cas cleared his throat.  “I… I don’t know what to expect.”_

_“Cas… I’m not like your parents.  Look,” Dean reached out slowly, wrapped his arm around Cas’s shoulders and pulled the smaller boy against his chest. “I won’t ever hurt you, Cas.  Understand?”  Cas nodded slowly against him.  “And your confession ain’t no surprise to me, Cas.  I already knew you felt that way, even if you couldn’t say it.  ‘Sides, I agree with you.”_

_Cas pulled back and Dean could see that his eyes were red, though there were no tears.  “You do?”_

_“Course I do.  My daddy always said that every man should have the right to make his own livin’.  Slavery’s a wicked thing used to make rich men richer by keeping other folks down.  That’s all.”_

_“I asked the preacher, when I was younger, and he told me it was God’s will.”_

_Dean snorted.  “Yeah, well, the preacher owns slaves so he_ would _say so, wouldn’t he?”_

_“I suppose you’re right.  It’s just… now I have these thoughts, and I know what they mean, finally, and I don’t know what to do.  I feel so hopeless.”_

_“Maybe there’s nothing you can do, Cas, ‘cept try to be a good man, and take care of the people you love.”  Dean ran a hand through his own messy hair.  “That’s all the likes of me can hope to do, anyway.”_

_“Don’t talk down about yourself, Dean.”  Cas said absently as he focused his eyes on the muddy waters of the creek.  “I can’t just sit back and watch it happen anymore, Dean.  I have too many nightmares already.  I’ll… think of something.”_

_Dean shifted so that their shoulders were brushing and he nudged his friend.  “You be careful, Cas, you hear me?  Some people… they might try to hurt you for thinking that.”_

_Cas shuddered and Dean felt his blood go cold when Cas croaked “Oh, I know.”_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading this! I'd love to hear what you think :)

_November, 1863_

 

 

_Dear Dean & Cas,_

_We were so glad to hear from you both.  Must admit, we were worried, and have been since you left, but we knew that the two of you would take care of each other.  The house feels empty without you in it.  At night, the bed was cold where you used to sleep, so now Jo sleeps there so that we don’t freeze.  She’s sitting next to me as I write this, and says to tell you “You come back home soon, you hear?”  Just so you know, that means both of you._

_We are doing alright, though, Dean.  We got the harvest in just fine—it was hard work, but we made it.  Jo and I have been collecting firewood every day and I’m getting big muscles chopping it in your stead._

_We’ve heard a lot of rumors lately.  The news has been buzzing about the trouble in Tennessee, and I know you’re there, or if not, then close.  The papers all say that you’re holding the line, that the Georgia troops are the last defense.  They say that if the Union army crosses into Georgia then the Confederacy is done for.  Some folks around here are real nervous.  Others keep their head buried in the sand, still, pretending like this war won’t affect them.  I used to think that Cas was exaggerating, but tell him I understand what he was talking about now.  People only see what they want to see, and they only worry about the badness in the world when it’s knocking on their door._

_I saw Mrs. Novak in Forsyth a few days ago.  She got into an argument with one of the servants: I don’t know about what.  She seemed real embarrassed when she realized that some of us could hear her.  She saw me, but I don’t think she knows who I am.  Cas: I’ll pass on news if I hear it, but so far your home has been silent.  I don’t even know if your father is there._

_Dean, I know you’re not really the praying type, but I want you to know that we’re all praying for you anyhow.  We miss you and we want you back home.  But more than anything, we just want you to be healthy and safe.  Much as it pains me to say, all we can do here is to have faith that God will bring you back home to us._

_With Love,_

_Sam, Jo, & Ellen_

            Dean read the letter against the glare of the setting sun.  He’d been on perimeter duty all day but had found a quiet moment up on the hill where he could see the whole valley spread below.  When he was sure that there were no enemy scouts crawling through the underbrush, he’d deemed it safe enough to pull out the letter he’d received from home. 

            Truth be told, Dean had been almost afraid to read it, afraid that some terrible misfortune had befallen his family in his absence.  Sam’s words and his easy, loopy handwriting had brought Dean a sense of calm that had been missing from his life for near on four months now.  Things weren’t perfect, but his family was well, and that was all that mattered, really.  He could take peace from that fact.

 

 

            That night when his unit settled around the cook fires, Dean passed Cas the letter from Sam.  It had been addressed to the both of them, which Dean was highly grateful for, and it was only right that his friend also got to read it.  While Cas was busy reading, Dean pulled a fresh sheet of paper and the pen and ink from his pack and penned his reply:

_Dearest Sammy, Jo, and Ellen,_

_Me and Cas were both so happy to get your letter today.  I know you will laugh when I tell you but we’ve been worrying about you all too.  We don’t get much news of what’s happening except for our orders on where to march and what work needs to be done.  They had me digging trenches for days.  Now they have me scouting—standing guard, mostly.  It’s dull work but it’s safe work too._

_There are so many soldiers here.  It might sound dumb but I never realized how big an army really was until we ran into one.  Sammy, you wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it for yourself, but there are men spread all through this valley, and there’s a whole other army on the other side.  I’m just a private, so I don’t know much, but you’ll be happy to know that for once in my life, I do what I’m told, and I get by just fine._

_Cas is well.  I was real worried about him joining up with me, and most of the time I still am, but he has settled in and seems to fit in the army.  They mostly have him digging ditches too._

_For now we are safe.  We’ve dug in and the General means for us to hold this position, so we will.  I don’t have the same kind of faith that you do, Sammy, but I do have faith in my companions.  I never woulda thought when I joined up that I’d make friends in this godforsaken place but I have.  I am in the company of good men and I have faith that we’ll bring each other home._

_Love,_

_Dean & Cas_

 

* * *

 

 

 

            The order to march came late in the day. 

Sometime early in the morning a portion of the regiment had swung northeast and come down on the eastern flank of the Union army where it was camped at Chattanooga in the latest attempt to retake the city and the valuable railway system. 

            Dean had awoken to the distant sound of canon fire and he’d jumped up, wide awake, hair disheveled, believing that their camp was under attack.  He’d tripped over Andy on his way out of the tent and nearly slammed into Cas just outside.  Cas was facing the direction of the noise, eyes squinted against the rising sun.  “Wh—what’s happening?”  Dean huffed.  His heart was pounding a panicked quick step.  It was not the first time he’d been awakened by the booming of artillery, but those times always meant bloodshed.

            Cas tore his eyes away from the distant hills to fix his gaze on Dean.  “They’re trying to take back Chattanooga.”  Cas’s voice was deep and calm as always, though his mouth was fixed in a frown. 

            The two armies had been quarrelling over Chattanooga for the last two months, clashing in a series of minor battles in an attempt to gain control of the city.  It was no secret that the rail lines that supplied the Confederacy ran through Chattanooga and for the last two months the Southern army had been dependent on reserves while the Union army controlled the rail lines and intercepted the delayed shipments.

            Dean stood next to his friend in the early morning sun and watched as smoke began to rise from over the hills in the neighboring valley.  “Something feels diff’rent this time around.”  Dean muttered against the sound of another canon blast.  “I hope to God they end this quickly.”

 

 

            They were called to the front late in the day; the Union’s eastern flank had fallen and reinforcements were swarming in to shore up the defense, leaving a gap in the southwestern perimeter.  According to orders, their unit was just one of many that the General had sent to the gap, sure that with the eastern distraction they would be able to punch straight through any remaining defenses.  A battery unit was a few hours ahead of them, already getting into place.

            Dean marched, jaw locked with grim determination, toward the fray.  If they could do this, if they could smash the Northern army and retake the rail lines, they would be the heroes of the Confederacy; they might even be able to put an end to the war. 

 

 

            Dean’s blood froze in his veins when they crested the ridge and stared down the solid mass of troops waiting for them in the valley.  The men below were moving in a restless swarm, their uniforms almost black in the darkening light.  Fires rose to the east and the air was rent by the screaming that had been smothered by the protection of the hills.  Dean had a moment, just a moment to think to himself that their odds were impossible, to think that they would break against the walls of the North and fall like so many toy soldiers. 

            Their order came back through the line, clear and ominous: “Forward!”

 Dean took a breath and flashed a quick glance around himself to memorize the positions of his friends: he was flanked by Cas and Benny, with Garth leading and the Fischer boys directly at his rear. 

            They abandoned the high ground and poured into the valley, the earth shuddering with the steps of thousands of men.  Dean marched stiff-legged, carried forward by the down-hill momentum, regretting the descent with every step he took.  His mind screamed for him to hold back, to claw at the earth of the sturdy hills with the last of his strength and never let go.

            They were halfway down the slope, where the earth grew steeper and the only feasible place left to go was down, the momentum of a whole army at their backs, when the first volley of canon fire slammed into the hillside toward their rear, throwing clumps of earth and fire and blood into the air.  The crack and boom was deafening and shook the very air—the screams of frightened and wounded men tore through their forward march, but before the reality of the situation could register, the hill was struck by a second volley.

            Dean’s body moved without his guidance, forward, pushed steadily closer to the enemy guns, trapped between them and the mass of men pressing against his back.  Gravity drew them closer to the wall of spikes and bayonets waiting for them at the bottom of the hill—there was no place else to go.  The part of Dean’s brain that was still capable of thought amid the helpless descent whispered _You know what this is—it’s End Times.  Death is waiting for you at the bottom of this hill._   He flashed his eyes to his left, only briefly, just long enough to see Cas clutch his chain through his shirt and then adjust his rifle.

            They gained momentum toward the bottom, tilted their rifles, bayonets affixed, and with canon fire exploding behind them, they charged.

            The first wave died screaming.  They drove against the line of spikes, wrenching them down, but some were caught on their sharp lengths and were pushed forward on them by the weight of the men behind.  The ones that made it through faced the bayonets and fell, sinking into puddles of their own spurting blood.  The second wave, the ones who made it through over the bodies of their comrades, met the Union army in a clash of fire as rifles were discharged almost simultaneously.

            The officers were shouting orders but Dean couldn’t hear them over the near-constant pounding of the battery unit and the rapid exchange of lead.  He came in the third wave, aiming over the heads of his dead and dying comrades, didn’t even bother aiming—just pulled the trigger the moment he had a clear shot.  One of the boys in blue fell—a whole line of them fell, screaming and gurgling, choking on their own blood as they sunk to the earth and were trampled into the mud on the Southern advance. 

            The clash of man on man was terrible, and too close.  Dean quickly lost sight of his fellows—all he could see was a wall of blue, dotted with grim, dirty faces like his own, and the flashing of rifle shot in the dim light of evening.  He pushed forward, afraid that if he held back he’d be trampled like the others.  There was no space to dodge a bullet, barely enough room to maneuver around the thrust of a bayonet. 

            There was no time to pray, no time to think.  His body moved purely on instinct.  Dodge, thrust, shoot, advance.  Duck, reload, stab, advance.  The crush of bodies on every side of him was smothering and he could see his companions falling, screaming, out of the corner of his eye.  He glanced once, to see if Cas was still standing, and nearly took a bayonet spike to the face for his trouble. 

            They couldn’t fight against the tide, the constant canon fire pinned them down, trapped them on the bottom of the hill, and the Union army advanced, swelling with reinforcements, and began to pick them apart piece by piece.

 

 

 

            They kept on until the sun went down and the valley was plunged into darkness, lighted only by the fires of their own little hell. 

            They tried for a retreat, but there was no scrambling up the hill because the Union boys never stopped firing shells.  They were pinned down, unable to move.  The darkness was a blessing—the boys finally stopped shooting, and each army took a step back to regroup for the night.

 

 

           

            Dean found Cas, who was unhurt except for a scratch on his cheek, and checked him over frantically.  They’d both survived the day—it was a miracle.

            They laid in the mud that night, thick with blood and the fallen, but they did not sleep.  No one lit any fires; the light would attract the sharpshooters, so they huddled close together to fend off the cold.  Still, the stinking mud soaked through the wool of Dean’s uniform, coating the skin on his arms and legs and back and with every breath, Dean had to fight not to vomit.

            They didn’t talk—no one did—too afraid of giving away each individual position.  In the darkness, Dean groped for Cas’s hand, and held on tight.

 

 

           

            The dawn brought with it the screaming of shells.  The Union boys had adjusted their guns in the night and as the sun rose over the valley, cannonballs dropped into their midst, tearing men apart.  They were doing what the Confederacy had hoped to: smashing them to bits in a play to end the war.  And it was working.

            They scrambled, frantic, as units fell to chaos, and lurched toward the top of the hill.  There was no use staying; they were all going to die, but if they could only make it back to the top, they had a chance.  Cas raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, took out a man.  He stood there, fingers shaking as he fumbled to reload, when Dean grabbed ahold of his sleeve and tugged him back.  The earth exploded in front of them, raining dirt into Dean’s eyes.  He shook his head, panicked, and felt fingers curl around his wrist.  Someone screamed, just to their left, and Dean shook the dirt out of his eyes in time to see the Fischer boys go down as one, bloody and then still.  “Cas!”  Dean shouted, groping for his friend.  Cas grabbed ahold of him tightly and they trudged upward against all odds.

            “Retreat!  Retreat!”  Dean wasn’t sure if it was the officers or the men who started the call, but soon the bugles were echoing the order, and there was a mad rush against gravity.  The canon fire intensified—the Union boys were determined that no one was going to make it out alive.  “Retreat! Ret--!” The voice somewhere behind them was cut off with a choke.  Almost there, almost there!  Cas’s fingers bit into his flesh like iron.  They heaved each other forward and up, climbing, climbing.  One of the men in front of them took a bullet to the back of the head and dropped with a thump.  His handgun went flying and in the chaos, Dean stooped and picked it up, fired behind him blindly.  Another man in front of them dropped.  A spray of blood hit Dean’s face a moment later and someone screamed.  Cas shouted Dean’s name and he realized it was him who was screaming.

            So close!  So close!  Dean’s fingers dug into the cold, slippery earth.  He and Cas lurched forward, bloody and sobbing, as they pulled themselves over the top of the hill.


	14. Chapter 14

 

_May, 1860_

 

_Dean could hear the slapping of Cas’s feet against the ground, hear him panting with exertion and giggling as he darted through the field, leaping nimbly over branches in his futile attempt to escape. The hills were yellow and gold, painted with buttercups and sunflowers, and Dean was drugged by their heady scent as he gave chase.  Cas was lean, long-limbed: an energetic colt.  He was fast but he didn’t have Dean’s endurance.  He’d been chasing the other boy since they’d broken from the tree line and Cas’s breath was coming heavier, he was laughing louder now.  Dean growled and put on a burst of speed, sprinting toward the other boy.  Cas made the mistake of looking over his shoulder—he lost valuable seconds—and yelped when Dean crashed into him and sent them both tumbling into the flowers._

_Cas’s back hit the ground and he huffed out a breath when Dean landed on top of him, groaning at the impact.  Dean’s heart was hammering and his chest heaved from the chase.  Cas was soft and warm underneath him.  Cas made no move to pull away, so Dean wrapped his arms tighter around his friend.  “I told you I’d catch you.”  Dean chuckled._

_Cas’s eyes crinkled at the corners with his carefree grin.  “I almost got away from you.”_

_Dean smirked as he looked down at his friend.  “In your dreams, string bean.”  Dean reached up and brushed a dark curl from Cas’s eyes, smiling.  “You’re getting faster though, I’ll give you that.”_

_“Maybe I let you catch me.”  The words came out a throaty, teasing purr.  Cas’s voice had been changing, was taking on the deeper tones of a man, and Dean felt the words rumble where their chests pressed tightly against each other.  Dean chuckled and dropped his head to rest in the joint of Cas’s neck and shoulder.  “Damn tease.”  Dean bit lightly at Cas’s shoulder, earning another yelp.  Dean grinned against his skin and breathed Cas in.  Cas’s fingers threaded through Dean’s hair and he massaged gently until Dean’s body grew heavy and relaxed.  He rolled off of the other boy but kept an arm sprawled over him.  Dean sighed, burying his face against Cas’s shirt.  He could feel the warmth of Cas’s body through the fabric.  “Mmm…this is the perfect spot for a nap.”  He whispered.  He tightened his hold on Cas and asked, “Stay?”_

_“Of course, Dean.”_


	15. Chapter 15

_November, 1863_

 

 

            They were forced to leave their dead.  That was the worst part.  It was a sin against God and man.  It was shameful and the men felt it with every step that took them away from the fighting.  But there was nothing to be done for it.  They were a shattered bunch, struggling just to hold themselves together as they retreated from the battlefield.  They could still hear the shrieking of cannon fire and dying men as they pulled away from the muddied, bloody fields, and retreated as fast as their exhausted bodies would take them.  Chaos reigned for most of that day.  At one point, it seemed as though the Northern troops were going to advance and the Confederacy would indeed be crushed on the fields of Chattanooga.  Dean and Castiel did not wait to find out.  They trudged back to their camp and waited to see if anyone else from their Company had survived.

 

 

            So many were lost.  Captain Singer, Garth, and Benny all returned together, shepherding most of the survivors back with them, though others had stumbled into camp throughout the day. Most of the survivors only had mild cuts and bruises—those with anything worse had been trapped on the hill, unable to pull themselves out of the range of the cannons.  Benny was limping because he’d wrenched his knee pulling Andy up the hill.  Ash made it, but his calm demeanor had been shaken.  He kept mumbling about the guns, about needing to get control of them.  For the first time, Castiel began to wonder what had happened to him in the past to get him removed from his old artillery unit.

            Dean was bruised and bloody, his face caked in reddish mud, green eyes red-rimmed.  They were both slumped on the ground around the burnt-out remains of a cook fire.  Dean was silent, attention focused on the gun he’d snatched from the battlefield.  He twisted it in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the barrel, where Castiel could see something had been carved.  He couldn’t bring himself to ask.

            Eventually Castiel stopped jolting with every boom of the cannon.  He was so tired, and his body had long gone numb. 

            They lost the Fischer brothers.  Moore.  Reilly.  Sutherland.  Trent.  Countless other men who Castiel had never known; faceless, nameless boys now lying in their makeshift graves.  No guarantee of a proper burial.  The remaining troops retreated in shame, leaving them behind at the mercy of the enemy, the elements, and the carrion creatures.

            That was the worst part.

 

 

 

            The march to Atlanta was a cold, gray blur.  It was as if they all marched unconscious.  One foot in front of the other.  Good.  Repeat.  Castiel’s pack weighed heavy on his shoulders, but he couldn’t feel it.  Didn’t feel the multiple cuts and bruises littering his body.  He was aware of Dean struggling to stay upright next to him—Castiel glanced at him once or twice—but he couldn’t think of anything to say, so he didn’t say anything at all.

            The fields were yellowed with dead grass, but they were clear of all else.  Castiel didn’t know how long they marched for.  He wasn’t even aware if they’d stopped or just kept on until they arrived at the edge of the city.  They were met with the ramshackle tents of other troops already settling into a camp.  Captain Singer told them to stop there, so they did.

 

 

            Finally, they were given leave to rest.  Most men collapsed where they stood, others retained the energy to crawl into their tents before losing consciousness.  Castiel forced himself to stay awake a little bit longer.  They’d crossed over a creek on their way to the city, and it wasn’t far.  Castiel was covered in the blood of dead men.  There would be no sleep for him yet.

            The creek was deserted.  Castiel stripped out of his soiled uniform and let the clothes drop on the muddy bank.  The water was freezing but Castiel welcomed it.  The cold was sharp, biting; it was the first thing he’d _felt_ in more than a day.  He allowed his knees to collapse and he plunged under the surface of the water.  He stayed under until his lungs burned and his ears felt like they might pop.  When his head broke the surface, he gulped air, gasping.  He felt like he was being stabbed with pins all over his body, but it wasn’t the worst thing that he’d ever felt.  So Castiel ignored it.  He scrubbed at his skin until it was red and raw, and then he scrubbed some more.  He couldn’t get clean.  No matter that he couldn’t see the blood and mud anymore.  He could _feel_ it.  It was still there.  Maybe it always would be.

            He took a shuddering breath and contemplated the clear water around him.  He’d soiled it.  It was tainted now, polluted with blood and pain and grief and so many sins he couldn’t count them anymore.  How many men had died at Chattanooga?  How many had he killed?  He’d been terrified, had thought that he might die.  He’d been afraid that they all would.  Despite the fear, he’d been able to maintain a chilling calm.  Even as they’d marched into the hungry jaws of the Union army, unable to stop or turn back, Castiel hadn’t faltered.  When they’d come face to face with the bayonets in the crush at the bottom of the hill, Castiel had leapt forward, shoving his own blade into the man who stood in front of him.  And then another.  And another.  It was a different kind of killing—more intimate.  He was close enough to see their eyes widen in shock as he killed them.  He couldn’t get a clear shot because the bodies kept piling in, one after another, endless.  So he tore them apart, merciless, unflinching.  He’d lost track of Dean at one point, and his blood had run cold.  He couldn’t get out of the press long enough to look.  The fear was suffocating, debilitating.  He’d pushed it aside and fought on.  He nearly wept when Dean found him.  Hand clasped with Dean’s, he’d prayed all through the night.  On the retreat early the next morning, Castiel had started taking shots.  Calm, even breaths—gaze zeroed in on his target, he’d squeezed the trigger and taken out a gunner.  He grabbed Dean and ran up the hill.  He reloaded as he ran.  Turned.  Shot another.  He’d been thankful, he’d praised God for his aim.  He’d scared himself.

            The sky was darkening when Castiel finally stumbled out of the water.  He barely made it to the bank before he fell to his knees in the mud and vomited.  His belly was empty but he retched up acid that burned his throat and then he dry heaved until his shaking muscles finally gave out on him and he collapsed.

            Some time later, strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him up.  He knew it was Dean even before he blinked his eyes open and saw the other man’s concerned green eyes staring back at him.  “Hey, Cas.  You okay?”

            Cas shook his head, just once.  “I feel like I’m still covered in it, Dean.”  His voice broke off in a strangled whine.

            Dean yanked him into the warm strength of his own chest, wrapped his arms tightly around him, and held him upright.  “Cas.”  He breathed. 

            “I—I feel like I’ve been covered in blood for so long, Dean.  It—it’s n-never gonna come off.”

            Dean ran his hand through Castiel’s hair, petting him, making shhhhhing noises to try to soothe him.  “I know, Cas, I know, buddy.  But you gotta stay with me, okay?  Just stay with me.  We’ve all done things we ain’t proud of.  Sometimes we have to.”  Castiel clung to him, just trying to breathe.

            When Castiel had calmed enough to stand on his own, Dean turned his back politely so that Castiel could dress himself.  The air was cold and Castiel was glad to pull clean pants on but his fingers were shaking too badly to button his shirt.  He made a frustrated, helpless noise on his third failed attempt.  Dean turned then, huffing, and did up the buttons for him.

 

            Neither of them spoke as they walked back to camp.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for trauma, gore, & descriptions of graphic violence. Those warnings generally apply to this whole story, but this chapter was particularly hard for me to write so fair warning.

_March, 1861_

 

_"Oh my God, Cas!” Dean shouted, slamming through his front door and leaping from the porch, breath ragged.  Cas staggered, eyes glassy, and held his arms out in front of him pleadingly.  His hands and shirt were smeared with blood and flecks of it dotted his face.  Dean grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying for a moment, before his hands fluttered frantically of their own accord over his friend’s body.  “What happened to you?!”  Dean’s voice cracked on the question.  He could hear his blood roaring in his ears from the panic.  “_ What happened? _”  Dean demanded.  Cas still didn’t react.  Dean stripped Cas’s jacket and was shakily unbuttoning his friend’s shirt, terrified of what he might find underneath, when Cas finally sucked in a shuddering breath and seemed to deflate.  Dean caught Cas before his legs gave out from underneath him, held him tightly against his own chest.  Dean could feel Cas’s heart beating sluggishly, counterpoint to the racing of Dean’s own._

_Cas gulped audibly, then murmured, voice muffled against Dean’s neck “It’s not mine.”_

_Dean had never imagined before that moment that it was possible to feel both relieved and cold with terror in the same instant.  “Cas…?”_

_“Oh, God,” Cas gasped.  He was just able to yank himself out of Dean’s grasp before he turned, fell to his knees on the grass, and heaved wetly._

_Dean crouched next to his friend, hand hovering uncertainly over his back for a moment, before he set it to rubbing soothing circles between Cas’s shoulder blades.  Dean spared a glance back toward the house while Cas heaved again.  Ellen stood in the doorway, hand covering her mouth in shock.  Dean shook his head minutely.  Ellen must have understood, because she retreated back inside._

_After Cas had emptied his belly, he dry heaved until his body just quit and he slumped over.  “Cas,” Dean said, voice steady, “Let’s get you inside, alright?”  Cas didn’t react, but he allowed Dean to pull him up and lead him into the house.  Sam’s mouth dropped open and Jo gasped when they saw Cas, but Ellen quickly shooed them both outside to play—something that Dean was grateful for._

_Dean settled Cas on the bench at the table and asked Ellen quietly for a bowl of water and a cloth.  Cas sagged on the seat, unmoving but unresisting as Dean finished unbuttoning his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, guided it down his arms, and then balled it up and dropped it into a heap on the floor.  Ellen was quick about fetching the water; she sat the bowl and cloth down on the table then took up a spot behind Dean and to the left to stand guard while Dean took care of his best friend._

_The water was cool, but Dean didn’t think Cas even noticed as Dean swiped the cloth slowly, gently, over the pale skin of Cas’s face and neck, removing the specks of blood.  The water was already pink by the time Dean began on Cas’s chest.  His shirt had shielded him from most of it, but there must have been a lot of blood because it had soaked through the silk, sticking the shirt to Cas’s skin.  Cas’s otherwise unblemished chest and arms were coated in strange patterns of darkening red.  Dean forced his hands not to shake while he cleaned Cas up._

_After Cas was clean and Dean had checked him over completely to make sure none of the blood had been his friend’s, Dean asked “Cas—you wanna tell me what happened?”_

_Cas gulped again, heavily, like he was struggling to hold back another heaving spell.  “Jackson: one of the field slaves.”  Cas’s deep blue eyes turned glassy again with tears that did not fall.  “He st-stopped.  For a—a break.”  Cas took a deep breath, shuddering as he exhaled.  “The foreman caught him.  It wasn’t the first time.  He whipped him, Dean.  ‘Til he couldn’t stand anymore and his legs gave out.  And then he…” Cas slapped a hand over his mouth and he lurched forward again.  Dean caught him easily, held him close, and murmured soothing words in Cas’s ear until the boy regained enough composure to sit back again.  Ellen was a silent shadow throughout the exchange.  “The foreman kept whipping him, even after he was down.  Annabelle was there, she said the foreman wanted to make an example of Jackson.  She’s the one that came running to tell Missouri and me.”  Cas hung his head and stared at his hands, now clear of blood, as though he could still see it.  “We tried, Dean,” Dean shot a worried glance over his shoulder at Ellen, ill at ease with discussing such things in her  
presence, but her jaw was set and Dean knew there was no chance of moving her.  Didn’t matter in the end, anyway, because Cas couldn’t stop talking now that he’d started.  “We tried so hard to stop the bleeding, but the lash had cut too deep—his back and sides were ruined, Dean.  At one point, I…” A sob ripped itself from Cas’s throat and his shoulders shuddered.  Dean laid a steadying hand on Cas’s shoulder.  “At one point, I saw _bone, _Dean.  That bastard kept swinging ‘til he laid Jackson’s ribs bare.”  Cas raised his eyes now, and they locked on Dean’s earnestly.  It wasn’t the first time Dean had seen this haunted look in Cas’s big blue eyes and he wondered how many other horrors like this Cas had seen.  “We tried, but there was nothing we could do.  He died under my hands, Dean.  The foreman killed him.”_

_Dean was hyper-aware of Ellen moving around behind him, but he ignored her until she showed up at his side with one of his own clean shirts in her hand.  Her voice was calm when she said “You put this shirt on now, sweetheart, or you’ll catch a chill.”  Then she glanced back at Dean.  “He’s stunned.  It’ll take him a while to really come ‘round.  It’d be best if he stayed here for now.”_

_Cas was staring blankly again so Dean knelt in front of him until their eyes met.  “Cas.  Can you afford to stay or are you gonna have to be gettin’ home?”_

_Cas shuddered but his eyes finally cleared a little.  He gulped.  “I’ve already been gone too long.  I’m sure someone’s noticed by now.”  He stood shakily and took the shirt from Ellen’s hand, slipping it on quickly and buttoning it with clumsy fingers.  Dean rose to his feet and watched his friend with worried eyes._

_Ellen’s mouth was a thin line when she hissed in Dean’s ear “You can’t let him go back like this!”  Dean shot her a warning look and she quieted herself, but she turned her glare on him and didn’t let up._

_“Are you gonna be able to make it back by yourself, Cas, or do you want me to take you?”_

_Cas shook his head vehemently.  “No, Dean.  I don’t want you anywhere near there.”_

_Dean gave a short nod.  “Alright.  But I want you to come back here tomorrow, Cas, so we know that you’re alright.  Promise me.”_

_“Dean….”_

_“Promise me, Cas.  If you don’t come back by noon tomorrow, I_ will _go looking for you, and I won’t do it nicely.”_

_Cas’s eyes narrowed and he looked like he wanted to argue, but he bit back the retort.  Their staring match ended, finally, when Cas’s shoulders slumped under Dean’s shirt—too large on Cas’s more slender frame.  “I’ll come back.”  He assented._

_Ellen only hesitated for a moment before she caught him up in a tight hug before he could make it to the door.  She murmured something that Dean couldn’t hear, then she released him.  Cas glanced back at Dean for a long moment, with haunted eyes, before he pulled the door open and started on his way home.  Ellen shut the door behind Cas and Dean was already at the front window, watching as Cas wrapped his arms tightly around himself and made his way down the long path.  Dean watched silently until Cas’s silhouette disappeared into the trees._

_Ellen stood, silent and brooding, behind Dean, where she’d watched Cas’s departure.  Her eyes were fixed on Dean now, though.  “Dean Winchester, I cannot believe you let that boy leave here.”_

_Dean frowned at her.  “He had to go back, Ellen.  He can’t be found missing, especially after something like this.  He draws too much attention to himself as it is.”_

_Ellen refused to relent, however, and she pushed into Dean’s space so that she could say “He wasn’t_ well _and you sent him back to those wolves!”  She accused._

_All of Dean’s control snapped, then, and he whirled away from Ellen.  His fist cracked against the wood of the door, shaking it on its hinges.  The pain zinging up his arm did nothing to steady him.  His voice was a dark growl when he said “They will_ kill him, _Ellen, if they find out what he’s been doing.”  Dean turned back to glare at her, but his eyes softened when he saw the tears dripping from her eyelashes.  Dean sighed and covered the space between them quickly, pulling his aunt into a hug.  They both held on tightly, just breathing, trying to reign themselves in.  “I’m sorry I lost my temper.  I’m scared for him.”_

_Ellen nodded and pulled away.  She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.  “This ain’t the first time something like this has happened, is it?”  Dean shook his head regretfully.  “Why didn’t you boys ever tell me?”_

_Dean ran a shaking hand down his face and winced; his knuckles were already bruising.  “I never wanted any of you involved.  Cas don’t tell me a whole lot as it is, for the same reason, I reckon.”_

_“Does he…?”_

_“Don’t ask, Ellen.”_

_She bowed her head.  “What in Heavens has that boy gotten himself into?”  She asked, voice pleading._

_“He’s in a bad spot, Ellen.  He has to be real careful from now on.”_

_“But you… you_ know. _He tells you.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Since when?”  She demanded._

_Dean sighed heavily.  “Since always, Ellen.  Thought it was obvious.”_

_Ellen’s eyes narrowed and she fixed Dean with a steady stare.  “You take care of that boy, Dean Winchester.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.  I always do.”_


	17. Chapter 17

 

_December, 1863_

 

 

_Dearest Sammy, Jo, & Ellen,_

_I’m sure you’ve read the papers by now or else have heard the news.  We were at Chattanooga when the Confederate Army broke.  They hammered us something fierce—we lost a lot of good men that day, even ones I never knew.  You know I ain’t the praying type, but I can only think to thank God that Cas and I both made it out of there.  I never meant to write you anything to make you worry but I can’t ever forget what I saw on those fields.  It was slaughter.  I don’t know whether the rider will make it to Forsyth before this letter does, but I wanted to make sure someone knew: we lost the Fischer brothers there.  They were together when it happened.  They refused to leave each other on the battlefield.  Make sure their momma knows._

_Sammy, I wanted to thank you for the prayers.  Before I left home, I might have scoffed at you, but I never will again.  Something got me and Cas out of that place, and I don’t know what else it could have been.  Not when so many other boys didn’t make it.  I ain’t ever seen anything so terrible in my life as those two days._

_We’re just outside of Atlanta now.  Captain says we’re going to winter here.  Even the Union boys have hunkered down for the cold months.  Guess no one wants to fight when they can’t even feel their toes.  I’m thankful for the rest, though.  We got a camp set up—we actually have tents now, so I don’t guess that the winter will be too bad._

_They keep us busy most days—they’ve had us digging trenches and building fortifications called chevaux de frise.  We lost ground at Chattanooga.  It was a loss we couldn’t afford, but we won’t let the same thing happen here.  If we can keep the Union north of Atlanta, we’ll make it through this damn war._

_When we’re not busy with work, we’ve been given leave to go into the city.  Sammy, Jo, y’all wouldn’t believe how big Atlanta is.  I used to think that Forsyth was too big but Atlanta is more than I ever imagined.  Cas used to come here in the summers, remember?  He told us what it was like, but I never could picture it.  I finally know what he was talking about._

_I hope that you all are taking good care of each other. I wish we could be there._

_Love,_

_Dean & Cas_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

            Being able to go into the city for a bath and a shave made Dean feel more human.  Usually the whole unit, what was left of it, went into Atlanta together, and today was no different.  D Company had been small when it mustered outside of Forsyth, made up of the dregs of the Georgia countryside, just like Benny said.  Now, though, the group had been torn apart til it was half the size it had been on the march to Chickamauga.  It wasn’t only their Company, though.  The whole regiment had taken a hit at Chattanooga, and units from the Eastern regiment were slowly trickling into Atlanta every day to shore up the city’s defenses.  The army that was fighting up the coast was winning victories, even now, and they could spare some of their men to hold off this western attack.  The Union boys had been silent, though, seemingly happy to dig in at Chattanooga until the winter was over.  They were safe there, Dean reasoned, and they still had control of the rail lines. 

            That was a problem that Georgia was starting to have to come to terms with.  Even though the trains through Atlanta were still running, there were shortages.  Food and fuel shortages.  Shortages of weapons and supplies.  They would deal with it, like they always had.  Dean hadn’t grown up rich, and he hadn’t grown up in a city like Atlanta where he was dependent on trains to bring him his essentials.  Dean had lived with shortages his whole life.  He was only thankful that his family had gotten the harvest in on time and that they’d cut the wood for the winter.  It might be a rough winter for them, but Dean had faith that his family would pull through.  They were all tough—Winchesters were raised that way.

            Their group split up when they got to the city—some of the men wanted to stock up on personal supplies—tobacco, paper and ink, shaving equipment.  Garth and Andy took off to look at getting some new boots, since Andy’s had nearly been destroyed in the thick mud at Chattanooga.  Ash knew a man in the city and apparently had pressing business to attend to that he didn’t feel like talking about.  Bobby was stuck at camp talking with other officers, planning, debating, reviewing orders.  New men were scheduled to arrive shortly, men that were slated to join with D Company.  So it was only Dean, Cas, and Benny who went to the barber. 

            They could have bathed in the creek if they’d wanted, but Dean didn’t particularly want to freeze his balls off, nor did he want to shave with the old, nicked razor that he and Cas had been sharing.  The last time he’d done so, he’d nearly taken his own head off.  It was a luxury, having a hot bath.  Hell, lately it was a luxury to be clean.  Still, it was strange when they were led into the back room of the barber’s and told that their baths would be prepared shortly.  There were three large metal tubs in the room, each large enough that a full grown man could sit in it.  Dean had never actually used one before; at home they heated water in a smaller kettle and washed quickly.  He turned to Cas, nudged him with his elbow.  “Hey Cas—are these the kinds of baths that you had at your place?”

            Cas scrunched his nose for a moment then replied in his deep, even voice, “Similar but ours were… uh….”

            “Nicer?  You’re allowed to say nicer, you know.”

            Cas huffed and shot Dean a sideways glance.  Benny chuckled.  “You ain’t ever had a bath before, Winchester?  Why am I not surprised?”

            Dean glared.  “Shut it, Benny.”

            “That’s insubordination, I’m sure you know.”

            “Oh, I know.  I still say shut it.”

            “Now, now, Winchester.  Pussycat, you gonna let him talk to a superior like that?”  Cas merely cocked an eyebrow.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Benny chuckled.  “You two ‘ve come a long way, you know that?  Anyway, enjoy this while you can, boys.  Ain’t no telling when you’ll get another one.”

 

 

            It felt strange to undress completely while there were still other people in the room, even if the attendants had moved dividing screens into place.  Funny that you shouldn’t see a man’s natural, naked body, but it was alright to watch his life’s blood drain away.  Sometimes Dean just didn’t understand.

            Dean was in the middle stall.  The tub was half filled with water that steamed in the chill air, and a plain wooden chair sat next to it.  Dean folded his clothes and set them on the chair, his handgun and belt going on top of the pile.  It was heaven to sink into the warm water and his skin prickled into goosebumps with the sharp change in temperature.  He leaned back against the cool metal, sighed, allowed his muscles to relax.  How had he gone this far in life without this?  It felt good… so good.  When this war was over, he was gonna tell Ellen that they should invest in one.  To his left, Benny was splashing softly and humming an indiscernible tune.  Cas wasn’t making a sound.

 

 

             They soaked for a while—Dean wasn’t sure how long—and he could tell the other two felt just as rejuvenated as him when they left.  Benny was still humming that tune when they walked back to camp. 

             Dean gave Cas a glance out of the corner of his eye: he was clean, pale skin flushed from the lingering warmth.  His face was smooth again, the dark scruff of stubble expertly shaved away.  His hair was still damp, and did that thing where it curled at the ends.  Dean used to laugh when it would happen on hot summer days after they’d pulled themselves out of the creek.  He’d twisted his finger around a curl once, teasing Cas, until the other boy had pushed him off the log back into the water.  Now he looked much as he had before they’d joined the army, young, handsome even instead of haunted and gaunt.

 

 

             There were strangers in D Company’s camp when they returned.  Dean felt his back stiffen, ready for an altercation, when he noticed Bobby standing in the middle of the crowd, and he could hear his gruff voice giving orders.  They came to a halt just an arm’s length away from the group.  Benny shot Dean and Cas a look out of the corner of his eye, took a step forward and called “Captain?”

             The men obscuring the way melted to the sides and Bobby gave a sharp nod when he could see them.  “’Bout time you idjits got back.  The others are already here.  Anyhow, Sergeant Lafitte, these here are the new additions to D Company.  They were formerly C Company of the 15th Regiment, just came from the Virginia campaign, isn’t that right?”

             One of the men, tall, with a sharp nose and a smirking mouth said “Yes sir, that’s right.”

             Benny quirked an eyebrow “Forgive me if this is a dumb question, but what are Virginia boys doing all the way over here?”

             The man grimaced.  One of his companions, a man with a stubborn jaw and wire-rimmed eyeglasses that made his eyes appear magnified, snorted and said “They ran us through the meat grinder, is what happened.  Large part of our regiment didn’t make it out and we’re all that’s left of our Company.  They shunted us around for a bit but never did decide what to do with us.  Then we all heard ‘bout what happened at Chattanooga and someone higher up than our pay grade decided you boys could use the extra men.  So here we are.”

             Dean narrowed his eyes at the lot of them, but especially the outspoken one.  “And who are you?”

             The man with the sharp nose held his hand up to stop a reply and said “I am sergeant Richard Roman, this here,” He pointed to the man who had spoken “Is Corporal Frank Devereaux.  To my other side is Corporal Azazel Masters”  He shifted to the side minutely and yanked a much younger boy forward—he looked to be maybe 13.  “And this is private Ben Braeden, our drummer.”  He flashed a shark grin at them and said “And so who are you?”

             Dean opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Bobby saying “This mouthy son of a bitch is private Dean Winchester.”

             Roman quirked a brow “Not an officer?  Awfully insolent for a private.”

             Bobby snorted.  “You have no idea.”  He glared at Dean but Dean could see the gruff fondness under the glare.

             The man named Azazel leered at them for a moment before indicating at Cas with a tilt of his chin.  His voice was syrupy and Dean hated him instantly.  “And who is this dandy?”  Dean realized in that moment that Cas was standing so close to him that their shoulders brushed.  Of course these men would pick up on it.  Dean had a sharp retort ready on his tongue, his left foot ready to take a step forward, when he was stopped by Cas’s hand on his arm.  He shot Cas a look out of the corner of his eye, just in time to see Benny sling an arm around Cas’s shoulders and pronounce “This here?  Why, this is Pussycat Novak.”  Dean gritted his teeth against the urge to deck Benny.

             Azazel quirked an interested brow and let his gaze drag over Cas’s body.  “Pussycat, huh?”

             Benny flashed the man an amused, dangerous smile.  “Mmhmmm.  He’s our sharp shooter.”  When Azazel and Roman both reeled back like they’d been slapped, Dean figured that he owed Benny a drink the next time they went into the city.


	18. Chapter 18

_December, 1863_

 

_Dear Dean & Cas,_

_Merry Christmas!!!  I hope this letter makes it to you in time for the holidays.  I don’t know how slow the mail is going to be, especially in this weather.  But we all wanted you to know that we’re thinking of you both.  It’s a very tight Christmas, and we don’t have any gifts to exchange this year, but we’ve all got our lives and our health, so that’s something to be happy for, if nothing else._

_Me and Jo went hunting this morning, and we managed to shoot ourselves some quail, so that will be our Christmas dinner.  Aunt Ellen was happy that we managed to come up with something, even though she doesn’t like it when Jo tags along for the hunt.  You remember those things you used to teach us… where all four of us would go into the field and practice?  Well, me and Jo have been practicing some more.  I thought you might like to know that._

_I only wanted this to be a happy letter, but I guess neither of us is able to do that these days.  People are getting real nervous around here.  There was some sort of incident among the slaves at the Novak plantation.  I’m not sure what happened, but a couple of them ended up being sold straight away.  Cas: I’m sorry I wasn’t able to find out more about what happened or who it was.  But I know that Missouri is still with your family and she was well the last time I saw her in Forsyth.  I’m sorry if this upset you, but I thought it best that you know._

_I don’t know what the conditions are like where you’re at.  (Still in Atlanta?)  But do us all a favor and do something nice for yourselves on Christmas.  Do something nice for each other.  And know that we all wish you were here._

_Love,_

_Sam, Jo, & Ellen_

 

 

            Dean paused in his game of cards with Ben and Andy and turned his eyes to where Cas was sitting on the log next to the cook fire, re-reading the latest letter for the third time.  His brows were pinched and his lips were pulled into a barely-noticeable frown.  Cas’s long, nimble fingers refolded the paper neatly and he clutched it close to his chest before closing his eyes.  Dean forced himself to tear his gaze away from his friend and back to the game. 

            His hand was shit, there was nothing left for it but to fold.  He laid his cards on the stump, face down and grunted “I’m out.”

            Andy side-eyed Ben before throwing a biscuit onto the pile.  “I think you’re bluffing, short stuff.”

            Ben smirked and laid his hand down.  Royal flush.  “Pay up, fellas.”  He chuckled, sweeping his winnings toward himself.  Andy gaped at him for a moment before pushing himself away from their makeshift table. 

            “I’m done here.  I don’t have enough food to lose any more to this little sneak.”

            Ben smirked up at him.  “Not my fault you can’t play worth a damn.”

            Andy glared down at him.  “Hey, watch your mouth, kid.”  He wandered away, shaking his head, muttering about card-sharks.

            Dean chuckled at Andy’s retreating back and focused on Ben, who was happily humming to himself.  “Where’d you learn to play like that?”  He asked.

            Ben smirked at him from under the brim of his too-big gray hat.  “Here and there.  You know how it is.”  He flashed Dean a self-deprecating grin.

            “No, not really.  My aunt never woulda let me play cards at your age.  And if she’d a caught me, she would’ve whacked me good.”

            Ben shrugged.  “Better for me there was no one to whack me, then, huh?”

            Dean frowned.  “No one?”

            The boy looked away.  “Not really.”

            “Feel like elaborating?”

            “I’m not gonna tell you my sob story, okay?  I don’t need your pity.”

            “Good thing I don’t pity you then.”

            Ben glared at him for a long moment, during which Dean refused to look away.  Finally he said “I never knew my folks.  Grew up in a boy’s home.  I hated it.  So when the war started, I saw my opportunity and I joined up.”

            Dean raised his eyebrows.  “You’ve been in the army that long?  How old were you when you joined up?”

            Ben narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw defiantly.  “Eleven.”

            Dean whistled.  “Just means you’re probably a better soldier than most of the boys in this camp.”

            Ben’s dark eyes danced in his pale face before he tucked his winnings into his pockets and stood.  “Damn straight.” 

            Dean watched the boy saunter away through the maze of tents before he realized that Cas was watching him, eyes narrowed in thought.  Dean stiffened his shoulders defensively.  “What?”

            Cas tilted his head slightly and waved in the direction Ben had disappeared to.  “You care about him.”

            Dean shifted uncomfortably under Cas’s gaze for a moment, but Cas refused to look away.  Dean knew Cas could see through his stoic front anyway, though, so he shrugged and said “Yeah.”  Cas nodded slightly, like he hadn’t even needed the confirmation.  “It’s just that he’s so young, ya know?  I mean, he’s only 13 for God’s sake.  That’s too young for war.”

            Cas nodded.  “I agree.  But he doesn’t seem to think so.”

            Dean frowned.  “Just pisses me off that where ever he was before was bad enough to make a war look appealing.  He acts tough, but he’s still just a kid.  A cocky, cheeky bastard, but still a kid.”

            Cas chuckled.  “He reminds me of you, actually.”

            Dean frowned.  “What?  I wasn’t like that as a kid.”  Cas just stared at him, utterly unconvinced.  “Well, look, I at least wasn’t that bad.”  Cas grinned softly, and Dean decided to believe he was conceding the point.

            It was just the two of them left around the dwindling fire at this point, so Dean threw another log on and poked it until the flames grew steadily larger.  A new wave of heat rolled over Dean’s face and he sighed.  There was currently no snow on the ground but it was cold enough for there to be.  Tomorrow was Christmas and Dean was looking forward to their allowed holiday trip into Atlanta.

           They were quiet for a long time before Dean cleared his throat and said, “Hey, Cas… I have a question and if I’m outta line, you can tell me to go to hell or whatever, but… how come you never get any of your own letters?”

           Cas looked at him blankly for a moment before slowly saying “Dean… you understand about my family.  We were never close in that way and I did not leave on good terms.”

           “Yeah, I know, but… they’re still your family, Cas.  And what about everyone else: aunts, cousins…?”

           Cas sighed wearily.  “I expect any that are even…aware… of my situation are ashamed of me, much like my parents.”

           “And what about that Bela Talbot, huh, _your fiancé?_ ”

           Cas’s mouth twisted in disgust.  “As I said, I’m sure all who know of my situation are ashamed of me, Dean.  Bella’s family is much like my own, which of course is the reason my father wished me to marry her.  I’m sure she’s aware, and feels just as disgraced by my actions as the rest of them.”

           “That’s what I don’t understand though, Cas… you’re fighting for the Confederacy, to save _their_ asses!”

           Cas snorted.  “That’s hardly why I’m fighting, Dean.”  He looked away.  “In any case, it’s acceptable for a man of my _station_ to join the military, but only under certain conditions—at least according to my mother.  If I would have joined as an officer, or enlisted in one of the prominent cavalry units, they may not have been so upset.  At least then they could have _pretended_ to be proud of me.  Now?  I’m sure if my name comes up at all, they lie to cover my true whereabouts.”  He sighed again and his shoulders slumped.  He clutched the letter from Sam tighter in his hand.  “I’m sure it would suit Miss Talbot all for the better if I died at war.  Then she could mourn me for an hour and move on, rather than have to feign tolerance for my existence.”

           Dean frowned.  “Hey—don’t talk like that.”  He moved from his spot to sit next to Cas, slinging an arm around the other man’s shoulders.  “She’s a bitch, then, just like the rest of them.  You’re better off without them.”

           Cas smiled weakly.  “Yes, I agree.”

           “So when we get back, what, they’ll just pretend you never joined up or what?”

           Cas pulled out of Dean’s hold and frowned at him.  “Dean… I’m not going back.”

          “ _What?!_   What are you talking about, man?”

          “I thought it was obvious, I suppose.”  Cas scuffed his boot in the dirt, not looking at Dean.  “Whether we win or lose this war, Dean, there’s no place left for me there.  Not after what I said, what I’ve done.  I cannot go back.”

          Dean felt like the ground had just been pulled out from under him.  “What the hell is the point, then, Cas?!”  He growled.  “What’s the point of all of this?  Of you being here?  If you can’t even go home at the end of it?”

          Cas turned his weary blue eyes at Dean and simply stared.

          Dean had to look away then.  He wanted to leave, to get away from this conversation, but he couldn’t seem to make his legs move.  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered, voice quivering.

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean went into Atlanta the next day but Cas decided to hang back in camp and Dean couldn’t bring himself to argue.  He didn’t have a whole lot of money, but hopefully he’d have enough to get drunk enough to forget everything for just a little while.  Benny, Ash, and Frank all followed after him when he pushed his way into one of the many saloons.

            Dean slid onto a stool at the bar and ordered a shot of the cheapest alcohol they had.  He didn’t bother to give a close look at the liquid before he poured it down his throat, grimacing at the burn.  “Another.”  He muttered, pressing more coins into the barkeep’s hand.  The second shot didn’t taste any better than the first.

            Dean could hear the raucous voices of his friends, but he resolutely ignored them until Benny slid onto the stool next to Dean, clutching his own drink, and asked “Where’s your Pussycat?”  Dean shot him a warning glare and Benny leaned back, eyebrows raised.  “You and Novak have a fight or something?”

            “Leave it, Benny.”  Dean growled.  Couldn’t a man forget for just a minute?  Was it really too much to ask?  He didn’t want to think about Cas right now, didn’t want to think about the last thing that his friend had said to him.

            Benny frowned at him.  “Look, it ain’t in my nature to interfere in affairs that ain’t my business but… it’s Christmas.  You telling me you want to spend it without your boy?”

            Dean scrunched his eyes shut tight.  “Benny…”  He warned.  He couldn’t let himself think about it.  About how he’d practically abandoned Cas back at camp—hadn’t even attempted to talk him into coming into the city.  He felt like shit already.  He didn’t need the reminder.

            Benny sighed and motioned for the barkeep.  “If it’s that bad, you’re gonna need another drink, brother.”

            The world got fuzzier with each drink that Dean slammed back, but not the bits that he wanted to wash away.  Not Cas frowning at him and saying that he couldn’t go back home.  Not Cas watching him with those big blue eyes, begging for Dean to understand.  Dean squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist tightly to keep himself from doing something stupid.  He understood, alright.  After all of this was done, if they made it through this hell alive… Cas was going to leave him.

 

 

             Benny had to help Dean back to camp because his legs were wobbly underneath him and he couldn’t seem to walk straight.  Dean leaned against Benny’s side, thankful for the solid strength of the other man.  “He jusssst…. He jusssst… how _could_ he?”  Dean slurred, frowning.

             Benny patted his shoulder and dragged him forward.  “I know, brother, I know.  But you’ll work out whatever it is.  The two of you are best friends.”

             Dean giggled, and it sounded wrong even to his own ears.  “Can’t.  Nothin’ to work out.”

             Benny’s voice was calm, reassuring when he said “I’m sure that ain’t true.  You just need to sleep it off, now.  You’ll feel better in the morning.  In fact, it’s best if you go straight to bed when we get there.  Don’t want the Captain to see you like this, do ya?”

             Dean snorted.  “Don’t even care anymore.”

             Benny shook his head.  “Whatever this fight was, must a’ been a doozy.  I’ve never even seen the two of you share an angry look.”

             “Yeah, well….”  Dean muttered.

             The tent was empty when Benny dumped Dean into it.  He pulled the flap closed behind him after he left.  The world was spinning when Dean laid himself down and his head hurt, so he closed his eyes and tumbled into sleep.

 

 

              Dean didn’t know how much time had passed, or what had woken him, but when he opened his eyes, it was dark out and the tent was still empty, except for Cas, who sat an arm’s length away, watching him with shadowed eyes.  “Cas,” Dean croaked, reaching a hand out toward his friend.

              Cas watched him grope clumsily in the dark for a moment before he scooted closer.  Dean wrapped his hand around Cas’s wrist and sighed deeply when he could feel the warmth of Cas’s skin under his fingers, the strong pulse just under the skin.  “Dean….”  Cas sighed, running his free hand through his messy hair.  “I don’t know what to….”

              “Don’t.”  Dean mumbled, closing his eyes again.  “Don’t.  Just… stay?”

              Cas slid down into his own bedroll next to Dean’s, adjusting himself awkwardly because Dean refused to let go of him.  Dean tugged him closer so that he could feel the warmth of Cas’s body through the layers of fabric between them.  “’M sorry I left you alone today.”  He mumbled.

              Cas heaved a weary sigh.  “It’s alright, Dean.”

              “No.”  Dean protested drowsily.  “No it’s not.  None of this is alright, Cas.”  Dean’s eyes drooped shut against his will.  Cas was warm and pliant when Dean pulled him close against his body and held him tightly.  “Just… just… don’t leave me.”  Cas nodded mutely and relaxed against him.  The darkness of sleep was closing in on Dean again.  Before exhaustion swallowed him, Dean’s last thought, with his nose buried against the warmth of Cas’s neck, was that the scent of his skin still reminded Dean of fresh cut grass and clean spring rain.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I encourage you all to come stalk me on my tumblr! http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/ I'd love to hear from you! :)

_April, 1863_

 

_Cas’s eyes were dull, hollow, when Dean opened the door.  The Novaks had been attending a series of balls in Atlanta to celebrate the Confederacy’s latest victories.  Cas hadn’t wanted to go, but it was expected of him, as his father had attended school with the governor.  Besides, all of Georgia’s pretty young ladies were to be presented and all of the young men of prestige were expected to attend.  Dean had brushed the whole thing off, telling Cas that it would be no different than it had for the last three years he’d been forced to make an appearance. Cas had been nervous, though he couldn’t tell Dean why._

_Now he stood on Dean’s threshold looking like his world had ended and Dean wanted to puke.  He stepped outside and shut the door behind him.  “Cas…?”  He reached out a hand to Cas’s shoulder.  His friend didn’t react in any way.  “What is it?  What’s happened?”_

_Cas blinked.  “I’m engaged.”_

_“_ What?! _”  The air punched right out of Dean’s lungs.  Dean cursed under his breath and reached down to tug on Cas’s hand.  “Come on, let’s go someplace else to talk.”  Dean led them out to the middle of the field and they settled against the sweet-smelling grass.  The sun was just beginning to set.  Cas pulled his knees tight against his chest and propped his head on his arms.  “Cas, tell me what happened.”_

_“I’ve been engaged to Miss Bela Talbot of Savannah.  She’s the governor’s niece.”_

_“But…how?  Why?  Why now?  You obviously don’t want to!”_

_Cas laughed and the sound was cold, hollow.  He still wouldn’t look up.  “Yes, well, that does not seem to matter.  Apparently my father and the governor have been discussing it for quite some time.  They introduced us on the first night and my father insisted that I escort Miss Talbot for the remainder of the festivities.  It was not so out of the ordinary.  I know other men who have been asked to perform such niceties.”  He shook his head slowly against his arms and finally raised his eyes to Dean’s.  Dean expected to see tears, but there were none.  “After the third night, my father took me aside and told me that the engagement was being arranged.”  Dean reached out a hand but Cas shook him off.  “I protested, of course.  I am not interested in marriage presently and certainly not to someone like….” Cas grit his teeth and Dean could see a flash of wildness pierce the shock in his eyes.  “_ Miss _Talbot is the daughter of one of the wealthiest cotton barons in the state.  She told me very proudly during a waltz that she herself owns three slaves.”  Cas chuckled, but there was no humor in it.  “My father would not accept my refusal.  He expected it, he said….”  Cas’s throat worked, as if to hold down bile, and he turned his eyes away.  “It doesn’t matter.”_

_“Cas… please tell me.”  The sorrow in Dean’s own voice surprised him._

_“My father knows precisely where to hit me, Dean.  He is a cruel, ignorant man, but in this… in this he has always been top of the class.  I always wondered, you know, why he allowed me some measure of happiness.  Now I know.  He had to keep some sort of leverage to use against me.  He let me keep this one thing when I was a child so that he could threaten to take it away from me as a man.”  Cas’s lip trembled, but still he did not cry.  “If I do not marry Bela Talbot, my father will sell Missouri.”_

_“Oh, God, Cas….”  Dean was at his side, instantly, wrapping him up in his arms.  Cas fought against him, briefly, before he gave up and submitted to the embrace.  Dean wondered how it was possible for a man to sob like something was being tore out of him without shedding a tear.  He held tight to Cas and he rocked him, and whispered soothing words in his ear._

_They stayed that way for hours.  Eventually Cas went quiet except for an occasional hiccup.  Dean hummed Cas’s favorite tune, something he’d taught Dean when they were just boys.  He wasn’t sure if it helped at all, but it was better than the silence.  Cas fell asleep against him finally, and Dean settled them both down, threw his jacket over them so they wouldn’t catch a chill._

_Cas’s breathing was deep, heavy—his was the sleep of utter exhaustion.  Dean couldn’t sleep though.  He wrapped Cas close, tucked his tousled head under his chin, and cursed God and every man that had brought them here.  Through all the rotten luck the Winchesters had been dealt, Dean had never wanted to run away before now.  Dean had already accepted his fate, that he’d grow old and die a poor farmer, that someday Cas would grow up and move on, would realize that he was too good for Dean, and Dean would have to give him up.  And though he knew it would hurt, Dean was willing to do that for his friend if it would make Cas happy.  But to have him here, sobbing and broken, being forced into marrying into something he’d spent his whole life fighting against… and to have his father use the person Cas loved most against him…. “You’ll burn for this someday, you son of a bitch.”_


	20. Chapter 20

_January, 1864_

 

           The bordello stank like dirt and sweat and unwashed bodies.  It was closed and dark—the only light coming from the gas lamps and wall sconces—and Castiel couldn’t get a breath of fresh air.  He was loathe to leave, however, not with Dean still there, so he tipped his head back and took another shot.  The whiskey burned all the way down and Castiel wasn’t particularly a fan, but it went another step toward dulling his senses, thank God.

            The dark haired, dark eyed nymph was still perched comfortably in Dean’s lap with her arms wrapped around his neck.  She was alternately whispering suggestively and sucking on Dean’s earlobe.  They’d been at it for near on an hour already.  Dean wasn’t drunk, not yet, but he was fast approaching that point.  And the way the bartender kept refilling Castiel’s own glass, he was racing Dean to the finish line.

            This was one of the only moments of rest they’d been granted in far too long.  They’d earned the privilege of sitting in this dank hole and throwing their money away on alcohol.  Castiel tried not to be resentful of the brunette sprawled on Dean’s lap.  Dean deserved whatever kind of comfort he could find and Castiel was determined to let him have it, even if it meant downing another two fingers of whiskey and staring morosely down at the heavily-gouged bar.

            He was pulled out of his staring contest with the counter a short while later when a pair of soft hands wrapped around his arm, slid up to his shoulder, and he felt the press of warm breasts against his back.  A hot breath ghosted over his ear and a sultry voice purred, “Hey sugar, why don’t we get out of here?”

            Castiel turned his head just enough to get a peripheral look at the woman.  She was a brunette and dark eyed like the other woman, but her skin was pale and her face was heart shaped.  Her lips were colored a deep red.  She was actually a very beautiful woman, and though the warmth of another body felt good and the offer sounded even better, Castiel turned back to the bar and said “Thank you, but I’m not interested.”

            The woman was not deterred, however.  She shifted to press against his side, so she could burrow her face into the space between his neck and shoulder.  “I’ve been watching you for a while,” She breathed.  “You can invite your friend, if that’s what you want.”  Castiel stiffened under her touch, throat working to hold down his immediate denial.  The woman darted her tongue out, licked a stripe up his neck.  “Mmm.  Neither me or Lizzy would mind… it could be all four of us.”  She trailed a hand down his chest, scratching lightly over the tense muscles of his belly.  “We could go all night, have a little fun….”  She lightly brushed her hand over the bulge in his pants and he sucked in a breath. 

            Castiel swallowed thickly. “Please,” He choked, “It’s… it’s not like that.”

            She chuckled darkly against his skin.  “There’s no need to lie to me, handsome.  I’m a whore, I don’t make a habit of judging others.  Besides,” she said, nipping gently at the underside of his jaw, “I’ve done things that’d give you a full-body blush.”

            Castiel closed his eyes tightly, determined to get his roaring pulse under control.  “I appreciate your generous offer, but I must decline.  I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t apologize to me, sugar.  I only wonder if he’s this sweet on you?”

            Castiel gulped and darted his eyes to Dean—and was shocked to see that Dean was watching him right back.  He shuddered.  He turned back to the woman, desperate to free himself from Dean’s heavy-lidded green stare.  “Please.”  He whispered to the woman.

            She glanced over his shoulder again for a moment before cupping his cheeks in her hands and laying a soft, wet kiss on his mouth.  He fought to hold back a moan—though it was not a mouth he desired, it did feel good after so long without any kind of intimacy with another.  She nipped gently at his lip as she pulled away and then licked her own.  “My, you are a sweet thing.”  She murmured, staring at him.  Then, “My name’s Meg.  Come find me when you change your mind.  Bring your friend.  You’ve got yourself a standing invitation, angel face.”  She pulled away and sent a wink over his shoulder before turning and sashaying back into the crowd.

            Castiel closed his eyes and put his head in his hands, breathing deeply for a moment, trying, futilely to control his racing heart.  What kind of woman was this Meg that she could see inside of him and know his hidden, unspoken desires in this way?  Or was Castiel truly that transparent and he’d been fooling himself otherwise all this time?  The taunts of his Company swam in his mind: _pussycat, sweetheart, dandy._   Had they always been able to tell?  Had Dean?  Castiel was pulled out of his frantic thoughts when a warm, strong hand clapped him on the shoulder and Dean’s deep voice murmured “Hey buddy, what d’ya say we get out of here?  It’s been a long day.”

            Castiel peeked up at Dean and was surprised to realize Dean’s brunette was nowhere to be seen.  He wondered vaguely how long he’d been trapped in his own thoughts.  But he acquiesced, giving a short nod and pushing himself away from the bar.  He was a tad unsteady on his feet, but Dean kept a firm grip on his shoulder and steered them both out of the bordello.

 

 

            It was a short walk in the chill night air back to camp, and Castiel was grateful when he laid his body down in his bedroll and pulled the material warmly around him.  He didn’t want to think too closely on what had happened, nor did he want to dwell any longer on Dean’s recent treatment of him.  Things hadn’t been the same since Christmas: Dean avoided him when he could, choosing to spend time with Benny, Andy, or Ben instead.  And when they _were_ together, Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes.  Castiel would be lying if he said that he wasn’t hurt by it all, but he did understand it.  Dean was having a hard time dealing with the news that Castiel had thought evident from the very beginning.  But Castiel knew Dean Winchester—knew him better than anyone else in the world, and he knew that when Dean was hurt, he dealt with it by _not_ dealing with it.  The man avoided his problems, and tried to block off his emotions, and lately he’d also begun to drink too much, spending his spare money on cheap alcohol to drown out the reality he’d rather pretend didn’t exist. 

           There was nothing Castiel could do to help him, not this time.  Castiel couldn’t take back what he’d said, no more than he could go back home.  Castiel couldn’t take Dean’s pain away, but he could be there for him, just in case.  Just like always.

           Castiel closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes.


	21. Chapter 21

_February, 1864_

 

 

            Castiel loved the scent of wood smoke on the cold winter air.  It reminded him of cold days when he used to sit in the warmth of the Winchesters’ home, reading books around the light of the fire.  Or bundling up in his thick coat and helping Dean haul wood.  Or even back on the plantation, he would spend the cold months warming himself in the kitchen with Missouri, listening intently as she gave him lessons on plant lore and healing.  She told him the best stories when he was a boy, stories that filled him with awe and taught him to believe that Missouri was one of the wisest people he’d ever meet.  He used to love spending his days with her, even though he wasn’t supposed to spend his time in the kitchen.  Only the servants were supposed to be in there, but Castiel never understood that.  It was always warmest in the kitchen, and it always smelled so delicious.  And if Castiel behaved himself, Missouri would give him tastes of whatever it was she was cooking.  He missed her something terrible.

             He was on perimeter duty, rifle hitched firmly against his shoulder.  He checked the palisades for weaknesses as he walked down the line and when he came to the end, he shielded his eyes against the dying sun and searched the hilly distance for any sign of the enemy.  Nothing.  The evening was peaceful, though he knew that close by the Union army was settling into the valley of Chickamauga, taking the land that the Georgia troops hadn’t been able to hold onto.  Hopefully they would stay settled for the remainder of the winter.  Castiel didn’t particularly want to fight anymore, but he certainly didn’t want to do it when there was snow on the ground and he could see his breath on the air.

             Castiel was coming around the last bend of the northern rotation of his rounds when he stopped dead on his path, nearly running face-first into the man named Azazel.  Cas took a slight step back out of the man’s reach and squared his shoulders.

             Azazel smirked nastily at him.  “Where’s your bodyguard, Novak?”

            Castiel allowed all expression to slip from his face.  “I assure you, I have no need for a bodyguard.”

            “Hmmm…. That’s not what I heard.  Way I heard it, Winchester’s been _watching your back_ for years.  If you know what I mean.”

            “I’m afraid I don’t.  If you’ll excuse me….”  Castiel moved to shift around the other man, was a step past him, when Azazel jerked his hand out, wrapping thin, wiry fingers around Castiel’s arm.

            “Where you running off to so fast?  We just started talking.”  Azazel sneered.

            Castiel glanced down at the man’s hand, then stared up coldly into his eyes.  “Remove your hand.”

            Azazel laughed darkly.  “Or what?  You’ll run off and tell Winchester?  I heard the two of you are on the outs.”

            Castiel jerked his arm around and up so fast that Azazel stumbled, crashing face-first into the rough wood of the palisade.  Castiel followed his momentum, coming up behind him with the weight of his body and the barrel of his rifle, which he situated in the dip between the other soldier’s shoulder blades.  “I have no problem killing you.”  Castiel intoned calmly.  Azazel’s spine stiffened and Castiel could hear his breathing speed up.  “Remember that.”  Castiel shoved away from the other man and carried on with his rounds. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

             “Damnit, Cas,” Chuck whined, as Castiel wrapped an arm around Chuck’s shoulders and helped him to hobble forward.  “This hurts, man, can’t we go a bit slower?”

Castiel sighed.  “We _are_ going slow, Chuck.  If we go any slower, we will stop.”  Chuck frowned at him.  “Besides, the sooner this is dealt with, the better.  At this point, you’ll lose the toe, but if you hold off any longer, you’re likely to lose the foot.”  Chuck blanched, mouth falling open.  He sped up his pace.  Castiel shook his head as he helped his companion along the path to the medic’s tent.  “I don’t understand how you got frostbite anyway.  _You’re_ the one in charge of supplies for D Company.  If you needed new boots, you should have gotten yourself some.”

             Chuck snorted.  “Thanks, Cas.  How come I never thought of that?”  He paused, his mouth twisted into a sneer.  “Oh yeah, because _there are no more boots_.  You know damn well we haven’t had any extras for a while.”

             Castiel shrugged.  “I thought maybe you were just holding out on Andy.”

             Chuck scoffed.  “Look, thrift I might be, but I’m not heartless.  That boy’s feet were bloody from limping around in his ruined boots.  I didn’t give him any because there weren’t any to give.”

             Castiel nodded understandingly.  “I can see that.  In that case, I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

             They were drawing near to the tent when Chuck waved his apology away, saying “Eh, don’t bother.  I _do_ tend to squirrel things away.  It’s my job, after all.”  Castiel helped Chuck duck into the relative warmth of the medic’s tent and settled him on a bench to wait his turn.  He really hoped that Chuck would be alright.  As Castiel was turning to leave, Chuck stopped him with a tentative hand on his arm.  His face was serious when Castiel turned back to him.  “Things are bad right now, Cas,” Chuck intoned, eyes wide and dark in the shadows of the tent “But they can always get worse.”

* * *

 

 

 

            Dean found Cas sitting in front of the fire, twisting the chain of his necklace in his hand, rubbing the old dull button between his fingers.  He wasn’t really looking at it—wasn’t really looking at the fire, either.  Cas glanced up at Dean’s approached, but he darted his eyes away quickly, almost like he was afraid to look at Dean. 

            Dean’s stomach twisted into a knot of guilt and he felt slightly nauseous.  He and Cas had been…off…since Christmas.  They both knew it and apparently so did everyone else.  Hell, even Bobby had cornered Dean about it nearly two weeks ago, demanding an explanation for the tension running through D Company.  Dean had shrugged him off, saying that it was personal and frankly none of his business, but Bobby had smacked him upside the head and told him to get his act together.  Dean knew Bobby was right—Bobby and Benny, and Andy and Garth, and hell, even Chuck—they were all right when they said that whatever had happened between Dean and Cas couldn’t be bad enough to ruin a friendship over.  And yeah, they were definitely right.  _Of course_ Dean didn’t want this to ruin their friendship.  That was the last thing he wanted.

            Dean sidled over to the log where Cas was sitting and took a seat next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.  Cas stiffened, but he didn’t try to shift away or tell Dean to move, and Dean figured that was the best he could ask for in this situation.  They both just sat there for a moment, hyper aware of each other, barely breathing.  Dean was always awkward about talking about things that really mattered—he just didn’t know how to start the conversation.  So he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and just decided to start talking.  “So after the war… what are you gonna do?”

            Cas’s breath hitched, barely noticeable, and he clutched the button tightly in his hand.  He offered up a shrug, an effort at nonchalance, even though both their bodies were thrumming with tension.  “I think I might like to move out West.  Start anew, you know… where no one knows the name Novak.”  He was silent for a moment, lips pressing together tightly, before he took a deep breath and added “I think I’d like to become a doctor.”

            Dean quirked an eyebrow.  “A doctor?”

            Cas nodded, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye before refocusing his gaze on the fire.  “I’m tired of destroying things, Dean.  Tired of watching the world fall apart.  After this war is over, if I survive… I’m going to have a lot to make up for.  A whole lifetime will probably never make up for it.  But I think I’d like to try.”

            They were silent for a long time after that.  Dean didn’t know what to say, and Cas didn’t seem to have anything more to add.  So they just sat together, shoulders pressed comfortingly, and watched the fire burn. 

            Dean bowed his head, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and said “Maybe, uh… maybe I’ll round up my family and give it a shot out West too.”  Dean chuckled, but the sound was self-deprecating, nervous.  He choked off the laugh when he felt Cas’s warm hand settle on his knee.  Dean dared to look up and Cas was staring at him, his big blue eyes hopeful.

            “Dean.”  He murmured.  “Would you… would you seriously consider leaving as well?”

            Dean fought off a shiver at the touch that he could feel burning through the fabric that separated Cas’s hand from Dean’s skin.  He swallowed thickly and gave a short nod.  “Yeah, Cas.  You know… if you don’t mind us all tagging along.”

            Cas pressed closer against Dean’s side then, and Dean could feel the warmth of his body from his shoulder to his knee.  Cas smoothed his thumb over the rough fabric of Dean’s pants where his hand still rested on Dean’s knee.  His voice was ragged, choked with emotion when he said “I want you with me, Dean.” 

            That was all Dean needed to hear.


	22. Chapter 22

_June, 1863_

_Attending the round of balls in April had been bad enough—Castiel had no interest in dancing for Confederate victories and eating at banquets while thousands of boys starved and fought and died out on the battlefield.  But it was expected of him, and he’d gone.  Now it was worse, so much worse.  He clasped Miss Talbot’s hand in his own, the other resting lightly on her skinny waist, and he swept her around the dance floor while she maintained an air of polite boredom.  He flicked his eyes away from her face, already tired of looking at her, and focused instead on the wall of people standing at the edge of the ballroom, talking in hushed whispers.  What he wouldn’t give to be one of them again._

_Bela dug her nails into the fabric at Castiel’s shoulder, drawing him back to the dance.  Her eyebrow was quirked, unamused and demanding.  Spoiled girl—so used to always getting exactly what she wanted.  “I understand that dancing is not your favorite pastime, Castiel.  But I am your fiancé, and also a Talbot, and when you dance with me, I expect your attention.”_

_Castiel grimaced but hoped it could pass for a sheepish grin.  “Yes, of course.  My apologies.  My thoughts were merely wandering.”_

_Bela pursed her lips.  “See that they don’t.”  Castiel focused his eyes on her face, taking her features in, assessing as he hadn’t bothered to before.  If he didn’t know her at all, he might say that she was indeed beautiful.  Her honey colored hair was curled into loose rings that framed her sharp green eyes.  Even her form was beautiful—youthful face and curved body.  She was intelligent as well; he could see it hiding behind her dark lashes.  But she was conniving, and cruel, and he knew these things as well, so he could never consider her beautiful.  He gazed upon her to appease her, because that’s what she demanded, and that’s what was expected of him.  Castiel thought upon his future: a lifetime of appeasing Bela, and Castiel allowed himself a moment of lamentation that he wasn’t brave enough to kill himself.  Around them, the orchestra played a cheery waltz, and Castiel swept Bela gracefully across the floor._

 

 

 

_Some time later, Castiel insisted on taking some air on the balcony and Bela insisted on accompanying him.  Castiel gazed out at the manor’s gardens, eased only slightly by the cooling night air.  Bela came to stand next to him, still too close, and she laid her hand on the rail._

_“I hear another of your father’s slaves has run away.”  She announced._

_Castiel took a sip of his champagne and kept his face neutral, adopting the mask of utter indifference that he’d perfected over the years. “Hmmm… yes.”_

_“You don’t seem overly distraught over such news.” Bela snapped._

_Castiel turned his cool stare on Bela.  “And why should I be?”_

_She straightened her spine as if preparing for battle—he’d seen his mother do such a thing countless times.  “It says something about a man when he can’t hold on to what belongs to him.”  She quirked her eyebrow, challenging, accusing._

_“Tell me then, what exactly it says about my_ father _, since it is_ his _property that has gone missing, and not mine?”_

_Bela’s eyes widened fractionally and her mouth clicked shut, and Castiel was pleased to see that he had managed to infuriated and embarrass Bela in one go.  So he maintained his air of superiority and added condescendingly, “Besides, Miss Talbot, I rather thought we were supposed to be above such things, isn’t that right?”_

_Bela met his eyes and forced a smile, all teeth.  “Of course.”_


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a little out of hand, so I split it up into a couple parts. I hope you enjoy! Also, for those who are interested, I put together a playlist of the songs I listen to while I write this story. If you're curious:   
> http://8tracks.com/miss_grey/til-the-last

_May, 1864_

 

_Dear Dean & Cas,_

_I hope that you are both safe.  Something is happening here in Forsyth.  People are afraid.  I’ve heard people in town talking about packing and getting ready to leave.  Leave to where, Dean?  What is happening?  Should we be packing too?  What about the farm?_

_Dean, I’m scared.  We all are.  Please, as soon as you get this letter, let us know that you are safe.  Tell us what we should do.  Ellen said right now we’re staying put.  Dean—we have nowhere else to go.  What is going to happen?_

_I read the paper every chance that I get and I know there haven’t been any major battles in Georgia since before Christmas, so why is everyone suddenly nervous?_

_I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, Dean, and I promise I’ll take care of this family.  You and Cas take care of yourselves and each other._

_Love,_

_Sam, Ellen, and Jo_

* * *

 

 

 

            “The Union troops are on the move.  The General says that they’ve been massing in the Chattanooga Valley over the winter and they’ve finally started their advance.  Now it’s up to us to stop them.

            “A and D Companies have been ordered to march northwest toward Adairsville, where we will dig in and hold the line.  We made it through the winter, boys, and I’m proud of you.  Now, let’s go kick their Yankee asses.”  Bobby had never been the best at giving speeches but his firm voice and the stubborn set of his jaw were more inspiring than his words, and after all the shit they’d already been through, his men were willing to follow him to wherever he said they needed to go.    So they formed ranks and began their forward march.

 

 

 

            It felt strange to leave the relative comfort of Atlanta.  But it was necessary, nevertheless.  Up until this point, their movements had been primarily reactionary, and Dean was convinced that was part of the reason they’d lost Chattanooga.  Now they were being proactive: march north to stop the Union army and defend the heart of Georgia.  Dean hadn’t felt good about anything to do with this war, but the march north felt right.  Georgia didn’t have to win this war: they just had to hold on long enough for Lee to do it. 

After the long winter resting and preparing, Dean felt strong marching north again.  Strong, confident, with his friends and comrades marching with him.  Ben drummed for them in the beginning, and it kept their spirits up.

            It filled Dean with a sort of melancholy joy to see Georgia in spring bloom again.  This time last year, he’d felt like his world was falling apart.  Cas was engaged to Bela Talbot, destined to take over his father’s plantation.  Dean hadn’t been able to process the truth of the matter.  Every time he thought of Cas married—Cas with a woman on his arm, it made something twist in his gut.  Especially since Dean knew that Bela did not love Cas, didn’t even like him.  It was purely a political match—his best friend had been sentenced to a life of unhappiness, had been forced into agreeing to marry a woman who he could not love.  What would happen to Cas if he had to live a life like that?  It was worse even than what his parents had put him through as a child and youth.  It made Dean sick to think of it.

            But now everything was different.  Whether they won or lost this war, Cas wasn’t going back to Forsyth, wasn’t going back to his family and Bela.  And now that Dean had made the decision to follow him, he felt something ease in his chest.  They wouldn’t be parted against their will.  Dean had spent the last few months thinking on the future, and he decided that Cas had the right of it.  If the Confederacy won the war, life would go on much as it had, but Cas would wither away living under his father, and there was no way he’d be able to get out from under his father’s shadow, not in Georgia.  And Dean had a feeling that Cas had said some very stupid things to his father before he’d left, things that according to Cas, prevented him from going back.  Not without severe repercussions, and Dean would be damned if he’d let Cas’s father hurt him anymore.  Not after all of this.  He didn’t have it in him to sit by anymore.  No, not anymore.  He’d kill the bastard if he ever saw another bruise on his friend’s body.

            If the Confederacy lost, it was a different story.  Dean knew enough about politics to understand that if they lost this war, they were going to be punished.  Severely.  Dean’s family didn’t have a whole lot to lose in the first place, but Cas’s family did, and Dean knew that the Union would take everything.  Never mind what the Union might do to Confederate soldiers after the war, what would they do to the civilian population?  Would the Winchesters be allowed to keep their farm?  Would they be allowed to live in peace?  The idea of Sam and Jo having to grow up in the ruins of the South was enough to turn Dean’s stomach.  There wouldn’t be any opportunities for them.  They would spend their lives paying for the mistakes of others.  No.  Cas had a point.  Everything was different out West.  There were more opportunities for them there.  They could start fresh.

            The clean spring air and the scent of new flowers gave Dean a spark of hope.  All they had to do was make it through.

 

 

            They never made it to Adairsville. 

 

 

            Bobby sent Garth and Roman ahead to scout the way early in the morning on their third day of marching.  Before the sun had reached its zenith, the two men came rushing back to the column, panting and white in the face.  Garth gasped, his skinny chest heaving. “Captain, we’re too late.  Something must have happened.  The Union boys are already camped around Adairsville and there are more of them strung out in a line that blocks all chances of a northern advance.”

            Bobby’s jaw tightened.  “Did they see you?”

            “No, Captain, but they’ll probably be sending out their own scouts soon.”

            “Balls.”  Bobby cursed.  “Alright.  Men, form up.  We’ll head northeast.  There’s a town close by where we can take cover and relay the news back to headquarters.”

            Roman gave a short nod.  “Where are we headed, Captain?”

            “Place called Cassville.  Let’s move.” 

 

* * *

 

 

        The roads in Cassville were paved in red brick.  Here and there, a sprig of grass pushed up through the pavers, defiant, a testament to the recent neglect of the town and the lack of traffic to keep the weeds down.  Rosebushes and honeysuckle lined the roads and walkways.  They were in bloom now, large fragrant flowers in reds and pinks and yellows, wafting their scent on the warm spring air.  Stately homes lined the streets, guarded by ancient willows hung thick with Spanish moss.  Dean could imagine these houses as they once were, lit from within by the warmth and joy of family.  Now they were like ghosts, pale and cold, silent as the grave. Pale, worried faces pressed to windows and peeked out of doors as the soldiers passed through in the early hours of the evening, when the sun was just beginning to sink below the tree line.

         There were four churches in Cassville: either a testament to great tolerance or rivalry—Dean couldn’t decide.  They each stood sentinel in a different part of town, symbols of solidarity and faith.  Dean had never been the church-going kind—that was always Cas—but he could appreciate the solid reality of knowing, seeing, feeling a place where a person knew they could belong.

          An elderly man, the mayor, greeted them warily in the town center.  The old man was flanked on each side by stern faced women who helped him to stand because he needed a cane and it was obvious he was in poor health.  Bobby and the Captain of A Company met to converse with the man in hushed tones that Dean couldn’t hear from where he was standing near the back of the column, still in formation.  He allowed his eyes to take in the melancholy beauty around him.  Directly in front of them, commanding the central post of the town was the Cassville courthouse.  More people were emerging into the square and Dean’s eyes tracked over the tense, drawn faces of women and children and old men.  There were no young men left.  Not anymore.

 

          The residents of Cassville were sharply divided in their feelings toward the presence of Confederate soldiers.  Some of them praised God that there were men finally available to help to protect the town from the looming Union army.  Others were bitter, casting dark looks upon the soldiers, cursing them for coming to Cassville.  “You’ll bring them down on us,” one old woman spat at them as they passed by her house.  She clutched her shawl tight around her shoulders and promptly withdrew to the relative safety of her home.  Dean didn’t blame her—not really. 

          In the end, it didn’t matter.  The townspeople gave their aid to the Confederate army whether they welcomed them or not.  Room was made for the housing of soldiers for the duration of their stay, and food stores were commandeered for the hungry men.  Most of the women were pleased to have someone to care for again, even if just for a short while.  They mothered the young soldiers like they were their own boys.  Dean knew that they were probably praying that someone was being as good to their own sons.

          The soldiers were divided up into small groups, to be housed where the people of Cassville had the means to keep them.  They would not stoop to the level of their Northern enemies and force their way into the homes of frightened women.  But they didn’t need to. 

          Dean, Cas, and Ben were granted leave to stay in a large white, two-story house at the end of Cherry Lane, which was owned by a widow named Mrs. Hillard who reminded Dean of Ellen. They ducked their heads respectfully as they crossed over the threshold into Mrs. Hillard’s home.  “Thank you for your graciousness in hosting us, ma’am.” Cas murmured in his deep, soothing tone. 

           Mrs. Hillard waved away his thanks, saying “Don’t you boys worry yourselves none.  Before this war started, it was me and Effie and my boy Henry.  He was drafted last summer shortly after his 18th birthday.”  She cleared room at the supper table for them all and then began to set plates of food between them.  “You remind me of him,” She told Dean when she placed a clean plate in front of him.  “You look a lot like him—green eyes and freckles.”  Her smile was watery and she bowed her head so that they could not see her tears.  Effie was 8 years old, a scrawny girl with wild blonde hair and watery blue eyes, but the look in her eyes showed that despite her young age, she hadn’t gone unaffected by the horrors of war.  She rubbed her mother’s back while she cried and stared across the table at Dean and his companions, eyes haunted.

           Mrs. Hillard fed them a hearty meal of biscuits with sausage gravy.  They ate in silence, either too tired, or nervous, or out of simple respect for Mrs. Hillard’s grief;  Dean wasn’t sure.  After they’d finished eating and Mrs. Hillard declined their offer to help clean up, she led them up to an empty room on the second story where she’d made up pallets for them on the floor.  “You boys holler if you need anything, ya hear?”  She ordered with a weary smile before she left them, closing the door firmly behind her.  She hadn’t left them with a candle or lantern, but Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept with a roof over his head, so he wasn’t going to complain.  His body ached with exhaustion when he crawled into his makeshift bed.  It wasn’t the softest bed, but the blankets were warm and clean, and for the moment, at least, they were all safe.  It was dark in the room, and all Dean could see was the faint outline of moonlight on the skin of his companions, and the occasional glint of an eye.

          They were quiet for a long time, so long that Dean thought maybe the others had fallen asleep, when Ben finally broke the silence, whispering “I wonder what happened to her son?”

          Cas’s voice was a calming rumble when he answered “Probably the same thing that happened to the rest of us.  I’ll pray for him, though.”

          “Do you think it’ll do any good?”  It sort of broke Dean’s heart that Ben was so cynical at his age, but after seeing what he had, how could he not be?

          Cas shrugged.  “I don’t know.  But Mrs. Hillard opened her home to us in his stead.  It’s the least I can do.” After that, they didn’t talk.  It felt wrong to upset the cautious silence of the house.


	24. Chapter 24

_May, 1864_

 

       A rider arrived early the next morning with news from headquarters.  The Second Brigade had been crushed at Resaca two days before and were forced to retreat.  They’d lost 3,000 men.  It was a heavy blow for the Southern army and they were suddenly on the defensive once more. The Northern army was expected to take advantage of this loss and rumor had it that they might even attempt to march on Atlanta.  A and D Companies were ordered to dig in and hold the line at Cassville.

       Even more pressing than the news of the defeat of Resaca was the news that the Northern command at Adairsville had been replaced. Reportedly, a new General had taken up charge of those troops that were practically waiting outside of the Southern gates.  The Brigadier General at Cartersville had charged D Company with a reconnaissance mission to discover whatever information they could about their new opponent.

 

 

       In light of their new orders, A and D Companies  spent the day fortifying the northern edge of the town, building spikes out of scrap wood and digging strategic trenches.  Bobby ordered Ash to take charge of their cannons.  He lined them up on the ridge on the northern side of town, facing the line of trees that marred the otherwise open fields.  They had six of them, and they stood like sentinels, their metal hulks dark against the bright blue sky.

       Dean, Cas, and Benny were summoned to a meeting with Bobby at the courthouse near mid-afternoon.  There, he told  them that he was charging them with a recon mission.  The objective was simple: approach the enemy camp with caution.  Discover who was in command of the Northern brigade stationed at Adairsville.  Ascertain strengths and weaknesses of enemy troops.  Judge likelihood of imminent movement.  Do not engage.  Report immediately.

 

* * *

 

 

       Under the cover of night, they scurried over the field as fast as they could, low to the ground, quick, so as not to be seen.  The moon was bright that night—a blessing and a curse.  When they reached the hill, they fell to their bellies and crawled to the top, slowly, afraid to even breathe lest they alert the enemy watch.  Benny was the first to peek over, then Cas with the barrel of his rifle brushing the grass for the best sight. 

       Dean’s heart stopped cold, his breath hitching, when he poked his head over and saw the dark mass of troops ranged out before them.   The Union flag was hitched to a tall pole, and it flapped lazily in the warm spring breeze.  Dean’s brows scrunched together when he realized it was surrounded by several gold and blue banners that he’d never seen before. He committed the banners to memory with forced detachment: recon and report—that was all they were supposed to do.  He was midway through his tally of cannon when Benny cursed at his side, ducking quickly back behind the hill.  “Shit, we need to get back and report this.  Right now.  Let’s go.”

       “What’s happened?”  Cas murmured, sights still fixed on the camp in the distance.

       Benny’s voice was tense when he whispered “I’ve just realized where I know that banner from.”

       Dean clapped a hand on Cas’s shoulder and pulled him back down behind the cover of the grassy hill.  Dean met Benny’s wide eyes warily, hissing “What is it?  What’s the banner mean?”

       “That banner’s for the Angel of the North, brother.”

       “Who’s that?”  Cas asked, eyes narrowed.

       “Brigadier General Gabriel.  He’s a defective West Point man.”

       Dean forced a smile, trying for an air of calm though he could feel his lungs constricting with fear.  “Why do they call him Angel?  He merciful or…?”

       Benny’s face was devoid of any humor, his eyes haunted when he murmured “He’s what you might call a specialist.  They call him in when they mean business.  They say that when he attacks it’s like the full wrath of God comes down on you.  It was thanks to him that the Union boys were able to push the battle and defeat Lee at Sharpsburg.”

       Dean gulped.  “Shit.”

 

* * *

 

 

       Bobby sent the rider out immediately for the headquarters at Cartersville when they returned early the next morning but luck was against them.  Michael’s regiment was feeling the pain of the defeat at Resaca and had spread out to buffer the defense north of Atlanta.  The Union troops were heartened by their victory however, and took advantage of the Southern scramble for reinforcements.

 

 

       Gabriel’s troops marched on them during the night. 

 

 

      The clanging of church bells woke the town in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had fully risen and the dark fields were still covered in a thick blanket of fog.  Dean, Cas, and Ben stumbled down the stairs from where they’d been sleeping restlessly to find Mrs. Hillard in the drawing room, holding Effie tight in her arms and looking out the window to where the silhouettes of Confederate soldiers could already be seen gathering on the ridge overlooking the town.  Dean laid a hand on her shoulder and Mrs. Hillard looked back at him, eyes wild with fear, her lip trembling.  He wished he could reassure her, but there was nothing he could say.

 

 

       They forced the evacuation immediately in preparation for battle.  The people of Cassville were reluctant to go, but there was no help for it.  They packed their belongings quickly, whatever they could carry or fit into their carts, while the soldiers ushered them along.  Some of the women cried, but most didn’t.  Dean figured that maybe they just didn’t have any tears left.  Dean was stationed on the hill at the northern edge of town, and he watched the frantic movements of the people below as they packed what they could of their lives and prayed for the best.  He thought of Effie—that little girl who had already lost so much, and he hoped that whatever happened today, she and her momma made it through.  The women did most of the work—the men were either too old or too young to be much use, and there were only a few slaves, mostly domestic servants, remaining in the town.  It was a sad sight to see them trudge in a weary line out of the town.  Most of them didn’t go far—there was no place for them to go—so they camped just outside of the reach of the cannon fire, spread across the fields to watch the fate of their home.

       Within the space of a few hours, Cassville became a ghost town, beautiful and empty, except for the desperate soldiers who scrambled to organize their defense in light of this new threat.   They’d set the cannons at the northern defense days before, thank the Lord, because that foresight seemed to be all that had kept the Union troops from storming the town in the middle of the night.  The thick fog meant the watchmen hadn’t seen them coming until they were already at their doorstep.   

       General Gabriel had ordered his men to push close to the edge of town under the cover of the tall, ancient trees that split the fields north of town.  It was hard to judge the strength of his troops because he kept the majority of his men behind the tree line, invisible and threatening.  How many of the men that they’d seen spread around Adairsville were now ready at their gates, chomping at the bit to rain fire down upon them?  

       Gabriel ordered the cannons moved forward into the open space between the trees and the Southern defense.  They were pointed not at the Confederate troops, but at the town.  Dean’s heart beat a panicked rhythm: D Company’s cannons were outnumbered two to one.

 

* * *

 

 

       “The rider should be back by now.”  Garth said from the relative safety of the courthouse, while his eyes surveyed the standoff through the second story window.

       “Well he ain’t.”  Bobby growled, “So we gotta do whatever we can do.”

       Benny clenched his jaw in determination and gave a short nod.  “We’ll hold those bastards off, Captain.”

       Roman snorted.  “We’re outnumbered, two to one at least, probably more than that.”

       Benny cast Roman a dark look.  “We’ll hold ‘em off, friend.  I can guarantee you that our boys won’t budge an inch—they won’t back down if they set their minds to holding this town.”

       Bobby glanced around at his officers, could feel the tension in the room thrumming in his bones.  “We’ll hold.”  Then he turned his dark gaze upon Novak, who stood quietly in the corner, listening to the conversation, no doubt committing to memory everything that was said.  “Bet you’re wondering what you’re doing in this meeting, huh, Novak?”

       The young man gave a short nod of acknowledgment.  “Yes, sir.”

       “Since the rider ain’t back yet with orders from headquarters, that means I’ve got to make an executive decision here, and I’ve done so.  I’ve got a special assignment for you.”  Novak’s face remained blank while the others in the room fell silent, interested.  “I want you settled in that big oak tree up on the ridge, just behind our cannons.”  Novak frowned slightly, a thin line drawing tight between his brows.  Bobby snorted.  “I’ve seen you fight, Novak.  You’re a crack shot.  I want you in that tree, watching.  I’ve met that bastard Gabriel before in my younger years—he’s cocky, likes to be seen.  The moment that son of a bitch comes in sight, I want you to put a bullet through his brain.  Do you understand me, soldier?”

       Novak gave a firm nod.  “Yes, sir.”

       “Good.  You’re all dismissed.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all of the archive warnings apply to every chapter, but I feel the need to give an extra warning for graphic violence and explicit racism in this chapter.

_May, 1864_

 

       Benny sidled up next to Dean where he stood, back straight, gun ready, on the ridge overlooking the Union troops.  “Pussycat’s up in the tree, Winchester.”  Benny muttered under his breath, giving a flick of his eyes toward a large oak tree at the opposite end of the ridge.

       Dean’s eyes followed his, frantic and worried for a moment.  “What?  What are you talking about, Benny?”  He couldn’t make out any sign of his friend.  If he was in the tree, he was well hidden by the splash of new spring leaves.

       Benny checked his own rifle over, his hands moving by rote, meticulous, over the metal before he nodded, satisfied, and hefted it to his own shoulder.  “Captain ordered him to take out Gabriel if he gets a shot.”

       Dean nodded, suddenly taking great comfort in the fact that Cas was so well hidden.  “Good.”  He wouldn’t allow himself to think what would happen when the bullets started flying, how difficult it would be for Cas to get away in the heavy cannon fire that was sure to come.  Dean turned his eyes back to the Union troops that spread out from the tree line, comfortable behind their string on cannons; in his head, he mapped where every single one was in relation to that oak tree, calculated how fast he could get to it if he had to, and began a slow, steady count of every man who opposed them.  Observing the impasse, waiting for the palpable tension to finally break, Dean felt suddenly calm.

 

 

       They watched each other for hours, the air silent and dense with possibilities, no one willing to make the first move.  The Confederate troops were outnumbered—to launch an attack would be foolhardy at best, but they were determined to hold Cassville no matter what happened.  Dean couldn’t figure out why the Union troops didn’t just start firing.  Sure, they were downhill so a straight advance would put them at a disadvantage, but they had enough cannons that they could probably decimate half of the town before A and D Companies could feasibly stop them.  And that was part of it, wasn’t it?  They’d aimed their cannons at the town, held the homes of Georgians hostage in order to keep this standoff going.  Still—even with the advantage of occupying higher ground, Dean wasn’t foolish enough to believe that they couldn’t be overrun by the enemy if they suddenly decided to storm the ridge.  They’d hold them back for a while, they’d given their oath that they would, but with odds like this?  It was going to be a bloody battle, and no one was going to leave this place unscathed, no matter the final outcome. 

        Occasionally Dean allowed his eyes to flick toward the oak tree, but he didn’t mention it again, and he didn’t linger.  Cas would do what he needed to do, just like the rest of them.

 

 

       They never fired a single shot. 

 

 

 

       The sound of the horse’s hooves clacking in the still air signaled the return of the rider.  He drew up to the courthouse, chest heaving, both he and his horse soaked in sweat from the journey.  His muscles were quivering with tension when he reaching into his bag and pulled out the letter from Cartersville.  Bobby tore the letter open and read it frantically, eyes scanning over the page fast enough to give himself a headache, then, confused, he read it over again, slowly.  After his second thorough read-through, he glanced up at the messenger, brows pulled tight in a frown.  “He can’t be serious.”

       The messenger bowed his head—he couldn’t even bring himself to meet the Captain’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, sir.  General’s orders.”

       “This says that we’re supposed to retreat immediately.  We’re not to engage.”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Did you see him?  Did you tell him what we found out?”

       The messenger nodded, his eyes wide and helpless when he dared to look Bobby in the face.  “Yes, sir.  I’m sorry—I relayed everything you told me.  But he was adamant.  Once I told him it was General Gabriel leading the troops, he said it was too much of a risk to engage his troops.”

       “This is a crock of shit.”  Bobby growled, crumpling the letter in his fist.  “We can hold the line here, God damnit!”  Bobby threw the ball of paper at the wall and watched it bounce off, harmless.  “What am I to do?  Retreat and leave this whole town to those wolves?  Does the General have any idea what will happen?  Does he know what he’s done?”

       The messenger stood tall, determined, though he couldn’t stop his lip from trembling when he answered “He knows, Captain.  He ordered that you withdraw your troops from Cassville immediately.”

 

 

 

       The troops were near on mutinous when Bobby gave the order to pull back.  Some of the men said _to hell with it_ and determined to stand their ground, they were so sure they could defend the town.  Only the threat of courts martial got the men to lay down their guns, and then only barely.  Dean’s disgust ran all the way to his bones.  Is this what Georgia had come to?  Giving up and running, tails tucked between their legs without even giving it a shot?  In the end, it was only his loyalty to Bobby and his Company that got him to turn and walk away from the wall of Union soldiers.  Even then, Dean knew he’d never forgive himself.

       They felt like traitors as they filed through the empty streets, silent and seething, a hairsbreadth away from turning back and taking up their arms once more.  They couldn’t bring themselves to look into the faces of the residents of Cassville as they passed them on their way out of town.  Bobby stopped to talk to the people huddled in the otherwise empty field—he told them to leave, to go someplace else where they would be safe.

       Cas walked in front of Dean, his shoulders tense, back rigid, his rifle propped on his shoulder, ready to turn and shoot at a moment’s notice.  At first he’d refused to come out of the tree, arguing “I can do it, let me take the shot.  Just let me stay!”  But Bobby wouldn’t have it, and he’d had Benny practically drag Cas out of the cover of the branches. 

       They were all angry and heart sore. 

 

 

       They were less than a mile away when they saw the smoke.  Bobby gritted his teeth and ordered them to march on, but even his threats couldn’t stop their Companies from turning back to watch the plume of smoke and the flicker of flames rise from the town.  The acrid scent of burning wafted toward them on the air, and soon the anguished shouts of the townspeople clamored with soldiers’ curses and protests.  They were restless, an inch from breaking ranks.  Bobby’s voice was a growl when he ordered “Keep walking, men.” 

       They didn’t keep walking, though.  They stood frozen, a long line of men, and watched Cassville burn.  The fire spread quickly—undoubtedly hurried along by enthusiastic torch bearers running through the streets.  The smoke rolled thick around the buildings, rising in a thick column into the air, where it spread to blot out the sun.  Dean had to clench his jaw to keep himself from screaming, and at one point he actually had to reach a hand out to keep Cas from taking a step forward.

       Of all of Dean’s sins, this was the worst: this—watching the world burn and doing nothing to stop it.

 

 

       The men were antsy, rebellious, aching for a fight already, when they saw a dark figure dart from out of the smoke and head for the shelter of the forest.  Dean realized a second too late that it was a slave making a break for it.  A second later, someone shouted “Got ourselves a runaway!”  Bobby roared “Leave it!”  But the soldiers were already jostling, eager for some bloodshed, and a moment later, Azazel broke ranks and sprinted after the slave.  “Get back here!”  Bobby ordered, but he was ignored, and in the next instant a blur brushed past Dean and he realized that Cas had taken off after Azazel.  “Winchester!”  Dean was already following after Cas and couldn’t decide whether Bobby was yelling at him to come back, or to stop his friend.

       Cas had always been fast—a fact that Dean cursed now as he struggled to catch up.  He could see his friend ahead of him, gaining dangerously on Azazel where he’d just caught up to and accosted the slave.  Dean could hear the pounding of his companions following close behind him.

       Everything blurred together, and happened so fast.

       Azazel grabbed the slave (a boy near Dean’s age) by the back of the shirt and jerked him roughly to a halt, screaming “Where the hell d’ya think you’re going, you bastard?  You ain’t free, you hear me?  Those Union sons of bitches ain’t gonna save you.”

       The slave whined and tried to jerk away.

       “Where is your master?”

       The boy continued to struggle against Azazel’s grip.  “I don’t know.  They burned his house, so I ran.  They’re burning everything.”

       Azazel sneered and shoved the boy away “You’re afraid of the fire?”

       The boy stumbled and fell to his knees.  “Yes, sir.  That’s why I ran.”

       Azazel’s lip curled nastily.  “Well you need to get your ass back there and start putting out those flames then, don’t you?”  Azazel pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at the boy.  “We’re gonna march you right back there, do you understand?”

       The boy’s voice shook with tears now, Dean could hear him crying over his own heaving breaths and footfalls.  “I can’t go back.  I can’t.  The fire will burn me up.”

       He could hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.  “If you don’t go back, I’m gonna put a bullet in you.  Understand?”

       Dean had almost caught up to them, was close enough to hear the pure rage in Cas’s normally mellow voice when he shouted “What the fuck are you doing?  Are you crazy?”  Cas put on a last burst of speed and skidded to a halt in front of the dangerous tableau.  “Put the gun down.  We’ll take the boy back with us to the city.  The mayor will know what to do with him.”

       The boy started crying even harder, sobs racking his frail shoulders, and he mumbled “Yes, please, sir.  I’ll follow wherever you want, as long as it ain’t back to the fire.”

       Azazel’s eyes were wild when he shook his gun at the boy and snarled “If you don’t shut your mouth, you’re getting a bullet.”

       Cas shoved his way in between the two of them, then, and as Dean finally arrived at the scene, panting and panicked, he could see that Cas’s eyes were narrowed dangerously.  “You’re insane!”  He shouted at Azazel.

       “Who the fuck do you think you are, Novak?!  Get out of the way!”  Azazel snarled, pushing Cas back.

       “Not a chance.”

       Dean’s brain was a whirlwind, conflicted between wanting to tackle Azazel and wanting to drag Cas away from the confrontation.  Behind him, he could hear the other soldiers catching up, could hear the echo of Bobby’s voice shouting for Azazel to put his gun away and for Cas to get out of the way and stop being an idiot.  Azazel’s eyes darted wildly toward Dean as he approached the group, but he kept his gun trained on Cas.  Dean wanted to kill him.

       “Cas, man, come on now, get out of the way!”  Dean begged, reaching for his friend.

       Cas turned his fiery blue eyes on Dean and growled “No, Dean, I’m not gonna stand by and let him shoot this poor boy.”

       “Listen to Winchester, you fucking pansy.  This ain’t your place.”  Azazel sneered.

       “Make me, you son of a bitch.”  Cas hissed through clenched teeth, taking a step forward.

       The other men were closing in around them now, and Dean was dimly aware of Andy pleading “Come on, Cas, it’s just a slave.  Come on now, don’t do this for nothing.”

       “It’s _not_ nothing.”  Cas growled.

       “If you two idiots don’t stand down now, I’ll see to it that you’re both thrown in the brig when we get to camp”  Bobby shouted loud enough that normally it would make Dean flinch, but right now his focus was on Cas and the gun pointed at him.  Dean felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Benny who gave him a sharp look and a nod at Azazel.  Dean nodded his understanding and a second later, Benny had lunged forward and was grappling with Azazel, pulling him back from Cas and the boy.  Dean took that opportunity to dart forward and wrap his arms around Cas, hauling him back from the fight.  At first, Cas struggled against him until he realized that Benny had ahold of Azazel, and then his muscles relaxed minutely and he allowed Dean to tug him out of the way.

       Behind them, the slave boy raised his hands to the sky and prayed “Oh thank the Lord.  I am saved!”

       Incensed, Azazel yanked out of Benny’s grip and before anyone could react, he aimed his pistol at the kneeling boy and pulled the trigger.  The crack of gunfire echoed in the chaos and the boy screamed, tipping over onto the grass where he gasped and convulsed, choking on his own blood. 

        Cas screamed and tried to shake Dean off, twisting violently.  “Murderer!  You fucking murderer!  Let me go!”  He yanked against Dean’s hold hard enough that it felt like he might rip Dean’s shoulders right out of their sockets.  “LET ME GO!”  He roared.  Benny dodged underneath Azazel’s outstretched hand and tackled him around the middle, knocking him to the ground and sending his gun flying into the grass.  “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!   I’ll kill you!”  Cas was crazy with rage, tearing at Dean’s arms to get at Azazel.  A moment later, another set of strong arms wrapped around Dean to help him hold Cas back.

        In the end, it took Dean, Andy, and Garth all to hold Cas down and keep him from leaping on Azazel.  The rest of the men stood by, wary and disturbed, as the life drained from the boy.  Azazel finally stopped struggling when Benny put him in a chokehold, but Cas didn’t give up.  He fought against all three men who were holding him down, desperate to get at Azazel.  Dean had never seen him like this before: he was shocked and terrified by Cas’s strength and the depth of his incoherent rage.  He was normally so calm, even when he was angry, but in that moment, Dean knew that if Cas had the chance, he’d kill Azazel with his bare hands in front of the rest of the Company.

        Bobby stood over Azazel where he lay pinned to the grass, and in a cold, resolute voice, promised “You will face punishment when we return.  For now,” He turned his eyes to Benny.  “Lead him back under armed guard.  He killed an innocent boy and threatened a fellow soldier.”

        When Azazel was heaved to his feet and led away at the point of Benny’s rifle, the fight drained out of Cas as quickly as it had come, and his muscles finally went limp.  Dean had to pry Garth and Andy away from Cas, promising that he’d take care of things from here on out.  He had to pull Cas to his feet and steady him.  His friend’s eyes had gone scarily blank.  Dean wrapped a hand around Cas’s wrist and tugged him along like he used to when they were boys.  They left the dead boy behind and Dean had to fight not to vomit all over his boots.

 

 

       Castiel’s steps were leaden, stiff on the retreat, his eyes hot and dry—barren of the tears that he could no longer shed.  The memory of Missouri’s voice, on a day long ago, when he’d been just as helpless to save someone, carried through his mind, soft and dreamlike, and Castiel wondered vaguely whether he was losing his mind:

_“Hush now, none of that, ya hear?”_

_“I’m sorry I failed, Missouri.  I’m sorry.”  Castiel cried._

_“Wipe your tears, sweetness.”  She reached out a hand and brushed them from his cheeks.  “You’re a good man, Castiel.”_

_“How can you say that to me?  After what just happened?”_

_“You are not your father.  These are his sins to bear.”_

_“They’ll never stop, will they?  It will never stop.”_

       There was no hope left in Castiel’s heart, only a dark determination, as he marched with Dean at his side, the town of Cassville burning at their backs.


	26. Chapter 26

_May, 1864_

 

 

       The mood at camp was bleak and the boys shied away from Castiel like he was carrying the plague.  The men were split over what had happened at Cassville.  While they were all united in their anguish and anger over having to leave the town undefended, the fight over the slave boy had resulted in hushed arguments and in some cases, hissed slurs and threats.  Most of the men could agree that what Azazel had done was unwarranted—there was no need to shoot that boy the way he did—they could have easily taken the slave with them and handed him over to the authorities to be returned to where he belonged.  But some of the men were even more disturbed at Castiel’s attitude than they were over the shooting.  Some of them called him sympathizer and worse things that didn’t bear repeating.  But Castiel didn’t care.  He couldn’t bring himself to waste his breath on these men.

       Dean had stuck close, guarding him like a precious thing.  He was much more wary than Castiel was.  It wasn’t just the fear that one of the men would try to retaliate against Castiel for what he’d said and done back at Cassville, though he knew that weighed on Dean’s shoulders as well.  It was that for perhaps the first time, Dean had gotten a glimpse of the darkness that lived in Castiel’s heart, the dormant, unvoiced rage that had coiled within him since he was a child.  Castiel couldn’t take it back, but then he didn’t want to, either.  It was good that Dean see exactly what he was capable of.

       They sat idly around the cook fire, Castiel watching the flames lick at the dry wood, slowly engulfing it and turning it to ash.  Dean sat next to him, less than an arm’s length away, polishing the pistol he’d found at Chattanooga.  Often, Castiel saw Dean staring at it; he held it reverently and occasionally rubbed his thumb over the words carved into the barrel.

        “What does it say?” Castiel’s voice sounded strange, forced, in the otherwise stale air of the camp.  “I’ve never asked.”  He mused.

       Dean glanced up at him, green eyes startled.  “Um,” He cleared his throat.  “I’m not sure what it means, I think it’s another language.  Uh… _non timebo mala_.  Here, you take a look.”  Dean held the gun out.

       Castiel took the gun into his hands, chuckling wryly as he swiped his fingers over the engraving.  “It’s Latin.”  He murmured.  “I fear no evil.”

 

* * *

 

 

       Later, when Azazel waltzed through camp as a free man, sneer fixed firmly in place, Dean had to restrain Castiel once again.  “Bobby, what the hell?”  Dean snarled when their Captain came into sight not far behind, his own frown fixed firmly in place.

       Bobby’s voice was gruff when he growled “Colonel dismissed the charges against him.  Said Novak egged him on and since he got away without a scratch, there’s nothing to be done for it.”

       “And the boy he murdered?”  Castiel hissed, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms with the effort of restraining himself.

       “Casualty of war.”  Bobby sighed and dragged a hand down his weary face.  “Let it go, Novak.  There’s nothing I can do about it now.”  Bobby looked like a man twice his age when he left them, walking stiffly to his tent for some much needed rest.

       On the other side of camp, just within their line of sight, they watched as Roman and Frank patted Azazel on the back and welcomed him back.

 

* * *

 

 

       Everyone else was sleeping, but Dean couldn’t seem to shut his eyes without seeing flames and hearing screams, so he dug in his pack ‘til he found the paper and ink he was looking for.  Cas had stayed awake with him until his body simply gave up from exhaustion.  Now, he lay next to Dean, wrapped tightly in his bedroll so that only his dark tuft of hair poked out.  Every so often, he would mumble or twitch, and Dean wondered what he was dreaming of. 

       So much had happened in such a short amount of time.  What was there to say?  What could he _bring_ himself to say?  He closed his eyes and saw again the rows of Union troops bearing down on them, the faces of the Confederate soldiers as they were forced to retreat without firing a single bullet, could see the flames and smell the smoke as the Union soldiers swarmed Cassville and proceeded to burn it to the ground.  Even after, reports had filtered in of the Union troops advancing, burning all villages, homes, and way stations along their path.  Dean could see it in his mind’s eye, the future of Georgia and the Confederacy, and it turned his heart cold with fear.

       In the end, Dean decided to just put the pen to paper and trust that he’d end up writing what he needed to.

 

 

_Dear Sammy, Ellen, & Jo:_

_I need you all to pack everything you can—take whatever you can carry, and you need to leave.  Now.  As fast as you can.  Don’t wait.  There’s no time.  We weren’t able to hold them, they’re pouring through our defenses.  The Union army is coming, they’re marching through Georgia, and they’re burning everything in their path.  Just get as far away as you can.  Send me a letter as soon as you get to where you’re going.  STAY AWAY FROM ATLANTA!_

_We love you all.  Be safe.  Be strong.  Do whatever you have to._

_Love,_

_Dean & Cas_


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for even more emotional pain than I've been dishing out.
> 
> Also: I blatantly stole a line from the show. You'll all know exactly which one it is.

_June, 1864_

 

            A string of round topped mountains and valleys stood bastion at the northern approach to Atlanta.  It was a tremulous thing, the Confederate defense—weakened by blow after blow of the advancing Northern army, strung unevenly at the northern line, perched precariously on those mountains.  Reports came in daily of skirmishes and larger battles, of Confederate fortifications falling like dominoes to the Angel of the North and his cronies. 

            The Georgian army had called for reinforcements from the East, but Lee was also bogged down and didn’t have any men to spare.  They were on their own, but they couldn’t allow Atlanta to fall.  If it did, all of Georgia would fall with it.

            The Southern boys, they didn’t have a whole lot of hope left in their hearts, but they crawled up those mountains and they dug in deep anyhow.  Because what else was there to do?

 

 

            D Company was given charge of defending Lost Mountain. 

 

           

            With their combined troops, picking up remnants of other companies along the way, D Company had 70 men.  Even plucked together piecemeal, this was only about half of the men a full Company should have, but even with those paltry numbers, they were better equipped than other Companies, so there wasn’t a whole lot to complain about.  At least each man in D Company had a gun.  Others weren’t so lucky—forced to march into battle with a blade, or in the worst cases, their bare hands.  Limping in their worn, holey boots. 

            Dean had stopped waiting for things to get better.  Things had always been bad, since the very start of the war, and had gotten worse when he was drafted and Cas joined up.  But since the tragedy of Cassville, no one had been the same.  Watching that village burn had broken something in the men’s spirits and Dean felt that sorrow all the way in his bones.  He guessed there were some things a man just couldn’t move past, no matter how hard he tried.  And for him, at least, Cassville was one of those things.  Time could blow away the ashes, and sooner or later nature would take the land back, but nothing could ever make what they did right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Cas was even more quiet than usual.  After Azazel got off scott-free on the killing of that slave boy, Cas never mentioned it again.  But Dean knew he was holding it close to his heart, taking it on himself, blaming himself for what he’d tried to stop but hadn’t been able to. 

            Dean still remembered him as a skinny, tousle-headed boy with impossibly wide blue eyes.  He remembered the frank gaze twisted up in the insecurity that lurked beneath the surface.  The soft voice that could be firm when it needed to be.  He remembered soft, warm skin and long days running through the woods and splashing each other in the creek. 

            He knew a lot of what had brought Cas to this point, and he could imagine most of the rest.  His posture and impassive face: products of his cold and demanding parents.  The silence the result of being slapped down enough times for innocent questions and later insolent words.  He’d been so sweet, too tender for their life, really.  Dean had wanted to wrap him up in his arms and protect him from the world since the day they’d met, and he’d done his best for nine years.  The hard-eyed, resolute man who stood next to him now was what happened when Cas did his best to return the favor.

            Even through it all, though, Dean had never worried about what Cas was becoming, because under the surface, Dean knew Cas was the exact same person he’d always been.  He still had a heart too big for his own good, and never-ending devotion to those he loved.  Even through the hits they’d taken in the last year, Dean could still see the wonder in Cas’s eyes when they were alive for another sunrise.  Others had believed Cas cold, unfeeling.  But Dean never did think those things, because Dean could _see_ Cas, in all the ways that were important.

            Dean looked at Cas now, standing rigid in his gray uniform, eyes sharp.  He was almost as tall as Dean now, though not as broad, and his voice had settled in a deep, smooth rumble.  But he’d matured into those things.  At the core, Cas was still Dean’s Cas.  Soft skin over strong muscle, messy black hair and endlessly blue eyes.  He still looked at Dean like he could see to the heart of him without even trying, even when his eyes were so world-weary.

            That’s why Dean never had to wonder about Cas, because he knew him, had faith in him.  Even after what Dean had seen on the battlefield:  Cas, still and resolute, taking up his position, rifle tight against his shoulder, methodically picking off man after man, without even flinching.  Sometimes, Dean wondered if any in their Company would believe what Cas used to be, before he was this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The land surrounding Lost Mountain was hilly forest—dark tangles of ancient trees that obscured the view of the look outs they’d posted.  Miles of it extended north, and though he was sure the Union troops weren’t aware of all their movements, Dean knew for a fact that the closest unit of Confederates was about 15 miles away at Kennesaw Mountain.  D Company was alone out here, perched in the foothills of the mountain.  And Union soldiers could be swarming them, for all they knew, tucking in close under the cover of the forest. 

            Dean had always loved the forest, loved climbing trees and laying in their shade.  But part of him wanted to burn this whole forest down.  It made him nervous, not being able to see the miles in advance of the mountain.  It made scouting parties necessary, parties that he was usually a part of. 

            Dean tucked his hands into his pockets, took a deep, cleansing breath, and tried his best to calm himself.  No sense borrowing trouble.

 

* * *

 

 

 

            They crept quickly, silently, through the chaos of branches, without the aid of torches.  The sky was clear and the moon was just breaking the horizon, large and bright enough to see by.  It wasn’t the first time they’d patrolled this route, and by now they knew where to put their feet, and where not to.  Over time, the tracks of deer had cut swaths through the underbrush.  It hadn’t rained in a while, and the mulch of decaying leaves and bark crunched softly under their boots.  There were six of them: Dean, Cas, Benny, Azazel, Roman, and Bobby led the way.  Earlier in the day, Bobby had received a message from headquarters that units northeast of Kennesaw Mountain had been attacked in the middle of the night by small raiding parties.  Bobby insisted on taking preemptive measures to make sure the same thing didn’t happen to them. 

            Each of the six men were strung out in a line that combed through the forest, blending into shadows, keeping their eyes and ears sharp for other scouts that might be bumbling through unfamiliar territory.

            So far there was no sign of the enemy.  After more than an hour of creeping through the trees, they crested a hill and looked down into a slight, bowl-shaped valley, hardly large enough to warrant a pause.  But there was only a smattering of trees between their current point and the other side, where they still needed to get to.  They had another hour to go at least before they reached the edge of their defensible territory.  Dean looked down the line—the others were all gazing into the dip of land, and past it, to the dark wall of forest on the other side.  He caught Bobby’s eye, and the older man gave one sharp nod, the sign for the go-ahead. 

            It didn’t take them long at all to reach the bottom—they moved quickly across the empty land, loathe to leave themselves exposed, even for the five minutes it took them to descend.

 

 

            The first shot struck dirt just a foot away from Dean when he and the others were climbing up the other side.  The gun shot echoed in the hollow, and Dean stumbled back, gasping at the near miss.  He jerked his eyes up to the top of the ridge but saw nothing in the cover of branches.  He narrowed his eyes to try to see better in the moonlight, and in that instant, a volley of fire sounded.  He almost tripped over his feet in his rush to get low to the ground.  Through the sudden onslaught of fire, Dean heard Bobby shout for their retreat. 

            They all turned tail and ran as fast as they could.  Dean zigzagged back down the hill, dodging stray bullets, praying he made it to the trees at the bottom.  To his left, he heard Roman cry out.  Dean glanced at him: Roman held his arm close to his chest, but his feet were still moving.  Thank God.  Dean didn’t know if he could carry the man up the other side of the hollow.  When they reached the bottom, Dean dove into the copse of trees, thankful for at least that much cover.  The others surged into the tangle of branches just after him.  Cas’s eyes were wild, chest heaving, when he reached Dean and stood close enough that their shoulders bumped.  “Ambush.”  Bobby growled, pulling his revolver out of its holster. 

            “Sons of bitches were waitin’ for us, Captain.”  Benny added. 

            “Think we can make it up the other side?” Roman gasped, blood oozing through the torn cloth of his shirt.

            “Dunno.  Any of you see how many there were?”  Bobby asked. 

            “Nah.  But those were a hell of a lot of shots, Bobby.”  Dean panted. 

            “One way to find out.”  Azazel whispered.  He turned from them and started a run for the uphill climb.  As soon as he broke from the tree line, a smattering of gunfire echoed and the bullets struck the trees and the ground close enough that Azazel dropped to his hands and knees and scrambled frantically back.  “Son of a bitch.  We’re pinned down.”  He gasped, heaving himself into cover again.

            “Maybe they’ll try to wait us out.”  Benny suggested, voice tight.

            “Doubt it.”  Bobby murmured.  He made his way to the edge of the trees, holding a hand out for the rest of them to hold back.  He froze in his steps, though, when he reached a break. “Good lord.”

            “What is it?”  Dean hissed, surging forward.  The others followed, until they could all see through a gap in the foliage.  There were near thirty men slowly making their way from the edge of the forest.  The breath was punched out of Dean.  “Oh my God.”  He gasped. 

In that moment, everything seemed to stop, except for the shadows of approaching men.  And Dean knew—he just _knew—_ that they weren’t gonna make it out of this valley.  This was where they were all going to die.

            Benny raised his rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and fired a shot.  It went wide, but a second later, a volley of countless bullets soared into the copse of trees where the six of them hid, forcing them back.  “Fuck.”  Benny hissed, immediately reloading.

            “There’s no way we’re gonna make it out of here.”  Roman choked, voice high-pitched and panicked.  “If we try to make a run for the other side, they’ll gun us down while we’re climbing to the ridge.”

            “You think we don’t know that?!”  Bobby demanded.  “Keep your shit together, Roman.  We ain’t laying down and letting them have it easy.  We need to think of something.”

            Dean glanced at Cas because his friend still hadn’t said anything.  He found blue eyes staring intensely back at him.  Dean watched Cas clench his jaw, roll his shoulders back, determined.  “Cas… what?”  Dean started.  Cas slung his rifle over his shoulder and, turning away from Dean, leapt up, grasping one of the thick, low-hanging branches of the tree closest to him.  “Cas!”  Dean demanded, heart kicking in a panic.  Cas ignored him and continued to climb, until he found a solid perch, feet just above their heads.  He steadied himself wordlessly, laid the rifle on one of the branches.  A second later, he pulled the trigger and they heard one of the Union soldiers scream.  A volley of shots came back at them, raining through the leaves, exploding the bark too close to Dean’s head.  Cas steadily reloaded, took aim again, and shot. 

            The Union soldiers roared back, one cry sharper than the others.  Bobby surged forward, peeking through the leaves.  “Son of a bitch, they’re coming right at us!”  Bobby pulled back just in time to avoid the next spray of bullets.  The others ducked behind the thickest tree trunks.  “Men, load your rifles and hand ‘em up to Novak, quick like!” 

            Dean hurried to comply, thinking to himself:   _How fast can Cas shoot?  Are we just supposed to stand here and hope he can kill enough of them before they reach the bottom of this valley so that they won’t just slaughter us all? This is crazy.  It’ll never work._

            Cas’s voice was steady when he called down from the tree, “They’re almost here.”  Then he fired another shot.  Bobby handed his rifle up, and then Benny’s and Azazel’s after it.  Cas leaned them against the tree next to him, and aimed the one he’d already prepared.  Dean had just finished with the powder when Bobby jerked the gun from his hand.  “Go!”  Cas shouted, voice suddenly tense.  “Make a run for it, I’ll cover you!”  He fired another shot.

            “ _What?!_ ”  Dean screamed.  “Cas, get your ass outta that tree right now!”  Dean leapt for a branch but missed.  Another round of bullets soared through the trees and Roman dropped to the ground.  “You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I’m gonna leave you!”

            Cas fired another shot, then looked down at Dean, gaze steady.  His eyes were dark, shadowed.  Dean’s breath caught in his throat.  Cas was serious.  “No, Cas.  No!  I ain’t leaving you!”  Cas turned his eyes away then, to focus on Bobby. 

            “I’ll hold them off.”

            Dean stormed forward, hands reaching for the lowest branch, when arms suddenly came around his shoulders, jerking him back.  Another shot echoed, another scream.  The pounding of boots drew nearer.  “No!”  Dean screamed.  “NO!”

            “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”  Azazel yelled, and he and Roman ducked out of the cover of the trees, running up the side of the hill as fast as they could. 

            Dean fought against the arms restraining him.  “Get off me! Let go of me, you bastards!  Cas!  Cas, run!  NO!”  Benny hauled him back on one side, Bobby on the other.  Dean tried to kick them, twist away—he even tried to bite Benny’s arm—but they were too strong. 

            They were shouting at him, incomprehensible words as they hauled him backwards, kicking and screaming up the hill.  “I’ll fucking kill you!  Let me go!”  Another shot.  “CAS!! CAS!!!”

            He fought them all the way to the top, bullets flying around them.  He almost broke free once, and Benny threatened to knock him unconscious and carry him back.  He stumbled when they reached the tree line, but they hauled him upright, turned him around in their grasp, and tugged him on.

            The world was a blur but for the sound of his own incomprehensible screaming—rage, pain, fear, and his best friend’s name on his lips—and the iron fingers digging into his arms and shoulders, hauling him forward, tugging him through the woods and away from the copse of trees at the bottom of the hollow.  Over the sound of his own screams and intermittent gasps for breath, he could hear the roaring of the Union boys reaching the bottom of the hill—shouting, running—and the loud recoil of shot after steady shot from _so close_ by.  They were in the thick of the forest, stumbling their way along the game trail, when it happened—what had Dean ripping against Benny and Bobby’s restraining arms with enough renewed vigor that he felt something in his shoulder pop. 

            The cease of gunfire. 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another rough one, but we're working our way out... also, comments are love!

_June, 1864_

 

           By the time they reached camp, he’d screamed himself hoarse.  When Bobby and Benny threw him away from them, he noticed grimly that their arms were bloody from where he’d dug into them.  He turned on his heel and leapt forward, slugging Benny in the jaw with his good arm hard enough that the other man stumbled back.  The other arm hung limp at his side, dislocated from his struggle.  He whipped the Colt from the dip in his back, and had it pointed in Bobby’s face before he realized his own face was wet with tears.

            Dean’s voice shook when he gritted out “Get out of my way.  I’m going back for him.”  Benny prowled close, ready to restrain him again, but he wasn’t Dean’s concern just yet.

            “Winchester, get that gun out of my face.  Get ahold of yourself and sit your ass down so we can fix your shoulder.”  Dean’s eyes narrowed but his hand didn’t waver.  “That’s an order, you stubborn son of a bitch!”  Bobby barked.

            Dean lowered the gun and sat down before Benny could get ahold of him again.  The other men in the camp stood around staring, but wisely no one commented, except for Andy who came forward after Dean was already seated and asked “Where’s Cas?”  Dean choked back a sob and Benny led Andy away to explain in whispers.

            “Brace yourself.”  Bobby ordered, before he planted his hands firmly on Dean’s arm and shoulder, twisted the arm back and shifted it, before putting pressure on the shoulder and sliding the arm back into place with a solid, painful pop.  Dean hissed through his teeth, but a second later, he was able to move his arm again, though his fingers tingled like they’d been asleep.  “You’re to stay in camp, Winchester.  That’s an order.”  Bobby informed him, though his tone was softer now.

            Dean stood so that he could look Bobby in the eye again.  “I won’t leave him behind, Captain.”

            “Damn it, Winchester!  That boy gave himself up so that we could make it out, so that _you_ could make it out.  And now you want to walk right back into that death trap.  Does his sacrifice mean nothing to you?”

            Dean’s throat was tight, but he still managed to croak “He’ll understand.”

            Bobby huffed angrily, shoved a hand through his messy, sweat-soaked hair.  “And if he’s dead?!”  He demanded. 

Dean choked back the strangled cry that was crawling its way up his throat.  He took a couple, deep, calming breaths.  “Then I’m going to bring his body back.”  Dean answered.  He felt another tear roll down his cheek.  “I told you, I’m not leaving him.  You sons of bitches pulled me back once, and I’ll be damned if I let you do it again.”           

 

 

            Dean checked to make sure the Colt was fully loaded before tucking it into his waistband again.  Then he readjusted the knife he kept stashed in the top of his boot.  Bobby and the others watched him silently as he checked himself over.  Both arms were good again.  He swallowed his tears down.  Enough of that.  He had to be strong now.

            When he tried to leave camp, Bobby stepped in front of him.  “Winchester.  You are deliberately disobeying orders.”

            “I don’t care.  You can shove ‘em.”

            Bobby growled, frustrated.  “You can be courts martialed for this.”

            Dean shrugged.  “You can do whatever you want with me after we make it back.”

            “God damnit, boy…”  Bobby sighed.  He was on the verge of another retort, when Andy and Benny both stepped forward.

            Andy cleared his throat.  “Sir… I’d like permission to go with Dean to bring Cas back.”  Bobby sighed, hanging his head.  When Benny spoke up, saying “Me too, Captain,” he knew it was hopeless.

            “Alright you idjits, listen to me.  If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it my way.”

 

 

 

            They didn’t bother creeping, or moving slowly through the trees, even though it was dark.  Dean had to hold himself back from running the whole way there, pushed on by thoughts of _What if he’s still alive?  What if he’s bleeding out right now, while I take my sweet ass time getting to him?!  Cas, you dumb son of a bitch.  God, please, just let him be alive._   The only thing that kept him at a steady pace was Bobby barking at him “And what if we need to fight when we get there?!  You’ll be useless, Winchester.  Use your head.”

            They moved at such a grueling pace that they reached the hollow in half the time as before, though they slowed to a cautious approach once they got there.  From the ridge, they could see the smattering of bodies—dark shapes of men scattered around the valley, and a cluster of them close to the trees Dean’s group had hidden in.  The valley was still and silent, and though the others descended with more caution, Dean rushed down the steep incline, his heart in his throat.

            All of the bodies he found were wearing blue uniforms, but he turned them over with shaking hands each time, anyway, _just to make sure_.  He hollered for Cas twice before Benny yanked him around, with a hand over his mouth, and told him to shut the hell up.  “You trying to bring them all down on us again?  We’re here to help you find your boy, but that don’t mean we’re ready to die, ya hear me?”

            They searched for a long time, Dean’s mind a whirlwind of hope, fear, and a refusal to believe what he was seeing.  He found himself standing at the base of the tree, staring up at the spot where Cas had been perched, empty now, his throat tight with renewed tears.

 He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, in shock, before Bobby settled a warm, heavy hand on his shoulder and said the words that Dean couldn’t bring himself to accept yet:  “He’s not here, son.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            _“I’ll hold them off.”  Castiel decided resolutely, turning back to where he could see the Union soldiers’ quick approach.  He could hear Dean screaming below him, fighting against the others as they pulled him to safety, but Castiel forced himself to ignore it.  He lined up his sights, exhaled, pulled the trigger.  One of the soldiers jerked back, his chest exploding in red, and he fell to his knees.  Castiel set that rifle aside and grabbed up another.  The men were close now, aiming high, searching for him in the branches.  Aim, breathe, shoot.  Again.  And again._

_Finally, though, the men reached the copse of trees and they found him quickly.  They circled closely around the base of the tree, gazing up at him with stony faces, hard eyes, fingers on the triggers of their own guns, all trained on him, itching to pull.  Castiel gulped, but kept a firm grip on his rifle.  He could take out one more before they killed him.  He thought briefly of Dean, being pulled back to camp, safe to live another day.  It was worth it, Castiel thought._

_One of the men stepped out of the group and with a pistol clutched tightly in his hand, he motioned at Castiel.  “Look what we found, boys.”  The others remained silent.  “Come on out of that tree now, or else I’ll shoot you and it’ll be a waste for everybody.”_

_Castiel narrowed his eyes, considering the man.  Was it better to die like this, here and now with some sort of dignity?  Or should he follow their orders and take whatever they had in mind for him, on the chance that he might be able to escape?  He saw Dean’s face in his mind and the decision was easy.  He lowered his rifle and swung down from his perch in the tree.  He landed with a soft thud just in front of the other man.  Castiel stood tall, eyes wide open, ready.  The other man flicked his eyes over Castiel, from his head to his feet, then back again, before he took a step back and commanded his men: “Bind his hands.  We’re taking him back with us.”_

* * *

 

 

           

            “Look boy, it’s a trap!”  Bobby growled, shoving Dean away from himself.  “And if it’s not, I’m sorry to say it son, but Novak… Cas… he’s probably gone.”

            “ _Gone?!_ ”  Dean tried to shove back, but Benny threatened to step between them.  “You mean dead.  He ain’t Bobby!  If he was, we woulda found his body.  They _took_ him.”

            “If they did, he’s as good as dead!  You saw that mess of bodies, boy.  Cas did that to ‘em.  What do you thinkthey’re gonna do to _him?!_ ”

            Dean had to grit his teeth and clench his fists to keep himself from attacking his Captain.  “Look, I said it before, and I meant it.  I ain’t leaving him.  If that means walking into their camp on my own, then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

            “Don’t be stupid!”  Bobby yelled.  “You’re a good man, and a good soldier, and much as I care for Novak, too, I can’t stand by and watch the both of you die.”

            Benny laid a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder, but it was too much.  Dean shrugged him off violently, and prowled forward, voice tight when he all but growled, “God damnit, Bobby, _he volunteered!_ ”

            Bobby frowned.  “I know, son.  He’s the one who made that decision and told us to go.”

            “No!”  Dean roared.  “Before.  I was drafted, but Cas _volunteered._ The dumb bastard was exempt and he signed up _because_ _he refused to let me go alone_.  I WILL NOT LEAVE HIM!”

            Bobby was silent for a moment, eyes purposefully avoiding the crowd of soldiers who’d gathered around them back at the camp.  His voice was gruff when he asked “What do you propose?”

            Dean heaved in a deep breath to get himself back under control.  “You saw that hollow, Bobby—Cas took out quite a few of their men.  If they were a scouting party, that was probably all of them.  If there were too many more of them, we’d have known about it, right?  Headquarters said raiding parties were breaking off and attacking our men during the night.  What are we gonna do?  Sit around and let them do the same damn thing to us?  They’re probably torturing Cas for information right now!”

            “You think he’ll talk?”  Bobby asked.

            Before Dean could answer, Benny cleared his throat and said “Even the best men talk eventually, Captain.  You know that.  Pussycat will tell them something, whether he wants to or not.”

            “Exactly.”  Dean said, throat burning with bile at the thought of someone hurting Cas.  “I say we go and get him back, and pay those motherfuckers back with their own medicine.”

            “Raid them?”

            “Kill every last one of ‘em.”

            Up until this point, the other men at camp had been silent, but now Azazel took a step forward, cleared his throat and said “You can’t seriously be considering this, Captain.”

            Dean turned cold eyes on the other man and spat “And why not?!”

            “We barely made it out of there alive.  I ain’t going back for no pansy assed slave lover.  He’s a traitor to the South, far as I’m concerned.”

            Bobby’s voice was a low growl when he replied.  “He sacrificed himself saving our necks.  I don’t care what you think of him, but you’ll hold your tongue in my hearing, do you understand, soldier?”

            Azazel frowned, but before he could get another word in, a group made up of Andy, Garth, Chuck, and Ben shoved their way forward.  Garth cleared his throat.  “Dean’s right, Captain.  We’re gonna have this fight either way, might as well have it on our own terms and the chance that we might be able to help one of our own.  ‘Sides, we’re all a family here now—we’re all each other has—and it don’t feel right leaving a man behind.”

            Roman snorted rudely from where he’d been watching silently near his own tent.  They all turned their eyes to him.  He was still clutching his arm close to his chest, though the wound had been cleaned and bandaged by now.  “I can’t let you do this.  Captain Singer, I will report you to the General for endangering all our lives for the sake of one.  I appreciate what Novak did, but it was his choice.  I’m not dying because Winchester can’t let it go.”

            Dean leapt toward him, but Benny held him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.  “Not your fight, brother.”  He murmured in Dean’s ear.  Then he took another step forward, arms crossed threateningly over his broad chest.  “Listen closely to me now, Roman, so that you can’t mistake me.  I don’t give a fuck what you think.  But if you ever threaten the Captain again, I will personally guarantee what you’ll never make it off this mountain.  You understand what I’m sayin’ to ya?”

            Roman’s face had gone pale.  He gave a short nod.

            Garth cleared his throat, his big eyes focused on Bobby.  “So what’s your decision, Captain?”

 

* * *

 

 

            _The tent was lit by a dim, guttering lamp.  It was empty except for a short table and the chair that Castiel was currently tied to. He tried to twist his hands against the knots in the rope, but they were bound too tightly, and the sweat pouring off him was just making the rope cut deeper into his soft flesh.  His legs, too, were tied.  Thankfully, he wasn’t gagged, but he knew that’s because they were going to try to make him talk.  It was only a matter of time._

_He wasn’t sure how long he waited alone in the tent, with nothing but his own fearful thoughts for company.  Castiel had endured pain before—his father had seen to that—but Castiel had a feeling that whatever was going to happen to him here was going to be a bit different.  Finally, the leader of the group emerged, a tall man with blonde hair and blue eyes, a man he’d heard the other soldiers refer to as “The Morningstar.”_

_The Morningstar circled him silently, eyes raking curiously over Castiel, seemingly taking in every detail.  His voice was soft, almost pleasant, when he finally spoke.  “You know, in medieval warfare, the English long-bowman was considered one of the deadliest warriors,” he began conversationally.  “From a safe distance, they could observe a battle and pick off enemy soldiers.  One… by… one.”  He circled Castiel one more time.  “They were feared.  And they were hated.  A long-bowman would rather kill himself than be taken by the enemy alive.”  He came to stand in front of Castiel, hands folded primly behind his back.  “Do you know why?”  Castiel remained silent.  It didn’t seem to bother the other man.  “When they were taken captive, they were subjected to brutal torture, the likes of which you can only imagine.”  The Morningstar smiled pleasantly and it made Castiel feel sick.  “First, they would take his string finger.  To shame him and to guarantee that he would_ never _be a threat again.  However, that is not all they took.”_

_Suddenly, the tent flap was pushed open and a tall, gaunt, haggard man with sunken eyes ambled in.  The Morningstar flashed Castiel a cold, cruel, smile and announced: “Ah, just in time.  I would like to introduce you to my associate, Mr. Alastair.”_

 


	29. Chapter 29

_June, 1864_

 

 

            Alastair’s favorites were the shallow cuts that burned when the blade sliced across the skin—deep enough to draw a steady well of blood, but not deep enough to do lasting damage in themselves.  His breath was rank, and he stood too close, his body brushing obscenely against Castiel’s on every pass.  Part of Castiel just wanted to die.  Alastair must have been able to read it in his face, because he leant close enough to whisper in Castiel’s ear: “Mmm… don’t you worry, boy, I’ll take real good care of you.”  He licked Castiel’s ear and Castiel shuddered, had to fight to hold bile down.  “You’re far too pretty for a soldier.  Has anyone ever told you that?”  He ran a hand possessively over Castiel’s bicep.

            Castiel turned his head sharply and managed to clamp his teeth on Alastair’s cheek.  The other man jerked back with a screech, and Castiel spat abruptly, though the tang of blood lingered on his tongue.  The flesh of Alastair’s cheek was bloody, ragged, torn in the shape of Castiel’s teeth.

            Alastair turned back, teeth bared, snarling, and wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s throat.  Alastair laughed and squeezed, tight enough to cut off Castiel’s breath, but not tight enough to crush his windpipe.  Alastair leveled his face with Castiel’s, close enough that Castiel could feel the putrid warmth of Alastair’s exhale.  “You know, I don’t even care if you talk.”  Alastair whispered, mouth contorted in a chilling grin.  “I’m going to take you apart, sweetheart.  Kill you a little every day.  But I’ll…never… let… you… die.”  He sang.  He reached out with his other hand and brushed his knuckles against Castiel’s cheek.  “It’s the long haul for us, sweetheart.  We were meant to be.”  He uncurled his fingers and Castiel sucked in a much-needed breath, his lungs burning, neck throbbing.

 

 

            Not long after that, Castiel wished that he’d refused to climb out of that tree.

 

 

            Alastair asked him questions while he worked.  _Name and rank?_ Slice.  _Bet you’re an officer, aren’t you?_ Cut.  _Where are your friends?_ Twist.  _You just grit your teeth and take it, don’t you, sweetheart?  Bet you’re real good at_ taking it _._ Alastair leered then, and Castiel felt fear of another kind.  _Don’t be greedy now, though.  I want to_ hear you.  _Sing for me._ But even after he’d taken Castiel’s shirt and proceeded to slice into his chest, Castiel didn’t talk.  Nor did he talk when Alastair took hold of one of his tied hands and proceeded to dislocate his fingers with sharp twists, one at a time. 

            Castiel screamed—he wasn’t able to hold in the pain and the horror any longer—but that was all he gave Alastair.  Already, it was too much.

            No one was coming, and if what Alastair had said was true, he didn’t mean to kill Castiel.  Castiel would try to be strong, but he knew that eventually, the pain would become too much, and he would break.

            He only hoped that by that point enough time had passed that his talking wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            When the darkness pulled back, the first thing Castiel was aware of was fire.  Bright flames roared on the other side of the canvas walls of the tent, casting hectic shadows.  Smoke hung thick on the air, bitter from gunpowder, and Castiel coughed to clear his lungs.  He winced against the pain of bruised and bloodied ribs.  Shouts and gunfire shattered the air into a million pieces.  It was dark outside—night-time again?—and Castiel must have passed out from the pain.

            Castiel struggled feebly against his bonds again, but the ropes refused to give, and Castiel couldn’t even feel his hands anymore.  He tried to rock the chair, but after he nearly toppled to the ground on his face, he gave up on that attempt.

            He listened intently, though his head was foggy, and tried to ascertain what was happening.  Pained screams mixed muddily with garbled orders.  They were under attack, obviously, but from whom? And how long had he been a prisoner?  The taste of blood was thick in his mouth from where he’d clamped his teeth on his tongue right before he’d been shaken by a controlled backhand from a smirking Alastair. 

            He was alone.  Part of him was afraid that he would burn up in this tent, still tied to the damned chair, but maybe it was better this way.  A good, clean death.  Whoever was out there, he hoped they killed these bastards and sent them to hell screaming.

 

            An explosion shook the earth under Castiel’s feet.  The world filled up with an unbearable roar, and then the sound was muted, and Castiel wondered if the force had blown out his ear drums.  He was still reeling from the pain when the tent flap was yanked open violently—he had a moment of fear that it was Alastair come to finish him off—and a shadowed figure strode in, rifle pointed forward.

            When the man gasped, Castiel knew exactly who it was despite the darkness and the chaos, and when Dean rushed toward him, lowering his rifle, and calling “Cas!  Oh God!” it was too much.  Part of him refused to believe what was happening—he almost convinced himself that he was dreaming—but it was real, he was saved.  The feel of Dean’s warm, callused hands cupping his face is what finally convinced him. 

            Castiel barely managed to choke back a sob.  “Dean,” he whispered.  “You’re here.”

            “Cas!”  Dean’s fingers worked frantically at the knots holding Castiel down.  “I’m here. I’ve got you.”  After a moment of fumbling in the dark, the ropes fell loose and Castiel was able to pull his hands free.  They quivered with the sudden burst of adrenaline through his exhausted body.  “Come on, man, let’s get you out of here.”

            “How did you get here?  Dean, we have to be careful, the camp was crawling with soldiers.”

            Dean’s voice was a hard growl when he replied “Not anymore.”

            When Dean led Castiel out of the tent, he didn’t quite understand what he was seeing.  Dead bodies littered the ground and fires scattered across the field, tents burning to smoldering ruins.  Nothing but scorch marks remained in places by the time they made it through the maze of fire.  Castiel recognized men from his own Company moving with purpose, their faces flickering in the fire, as they dispatched the remaining enemy and gathered supplies.  Dean led Castiel single-mindedly through the flames seemingly without fear, his arm wrapped securely around Castiel’s shoulders to hold him up.

            Bobby was waiting for them at the edge of camp, eyes black in light of the fires.  “Got him, Captain!”  Dean shouted when they were close enough to hear.

            Bobby saluted them as they drew close and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.  “It’s good to see you, boy.”  He motioned vaguely with his hand.  “Grab a horse and go, Winchester.  I’m calling the retreat.”

 

            Castiel was still in a daze when Dean helped him climb up onto the back of a horse that he didn’t recognize.  The night was warm, but Castiel still shivered in the open air.  Only then did he realize that he was only in his pants, his shirt torn and neglected on the floor of the tent back at the camp.  He was strong enough to keep himself seated on the horse, but he was still grateful to have Dean leading them both.  Soon after they began the trek back to Lost Mountain, other men from their Company joined them, but they didn’t talk.  Castiel was exhausted, and anyways, he didn’t know what to say.  Dean glanced back at him a couple times, but otherwise stared stonily forward.

            The world was still fuzzy, but on the return, Castiel was able to piece together what had happened from the murmured conversations of his fellows.  D Company had attacked in the middle of the night—a day after Castiel had been taken—taking out the night watch quickly and quietly.  They’d set fire to the tents and when the soldiers had poured out into the open, they’d shot them down.  The explosion that Castiel felt was the Union ammunition wagon being lit by Ash.  Castiel was amazed that they’d found him, was amazed that they’d come after him, and he still didn’t quite understand why they’d done it, or how. 

           The slaughter had been brutal and efficient.  Castiel didn’t know what to feel about what D Company had done to that Union camp, so he decided to just not feel anything at all.  He allowed his eyes to slide closed again and he slumped forward on his horse.

 

 

 

            When they reached D Company’s camp at Lost Mountain, most of the soldiers went about their own business, perhaps wisely avoiding Dean, who still had not spoken.  The only exceptions were a few soldiers that Castiel considered friends—Benny, Garth, Andy, Ash, and Chuck—who told Castiel that they were glad he was okay.  Castiel’s throat still hurt from abuse and smoke, but he thanked them all solemnly for what they’d done for him.

            Dean helped Castiel to slide from the horse, and guided him over to sit on a sturdy log near the cookfire while Dean bustled around camp, gathering supplies.  Castiel’s eyes followed his movements, grateful but still having difficulty believing that Dean had really come for him.  Dean’s shoulders were tense when he came back to Castiel and pushed into his space—hands fluttering gently over Castiel’s bruised body.

            Dean’s eyes were hard, his jaw clenched tightly with fury, but his hands were calm and gentle as he cleaned Castiel’s wounds and bandaged the worst ones on his chest.  Castiel’s ribs were sore—he was pretty sure Alastair broke or at least bruised a couple of them, and Dean noticed him wince when he passed a wet cloth over Castiel’s side.  Castiel sat quietly and submitted to Dean’s ministrations as his friend took care of him.  After all of his cuts were patched, Castiel reluctantly cleared his throat and raised his right hand.  “Dean.”  Dean’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath when he got a look at Castiel’s fingers.

            “What did they do to you?!”  He seethed.

            Castiel shrugged.  “I think they’re only dislocated.  It could be much worse.”

            Castiel couldn’t keep himself from crying out in pain as Dean stoically reset his fingers.  The bones ground against one another and the swollen flesh was uncooperative.  Dean winced with each of Castiel’s pained gasps, but he struggled through.  When he was done, it felt like someone had smashed Castiel’s hand under a cart, but he could move his fingers again.

            Castiel finally raised his eyes to find Dean staring at him, biting his lip.  Dean cleared his throat and, squaring his shoulders, asked “They didn’t… Cas, they didn’t…?”  Dean gulped, unable to finish the question.  Castiel _knew_ what he was asking, though.  He shook his head and murmured “No.”  Dean visibly deflated and sighed “Thank God.”

            “I’m fine, Dean.”  Castiel assured him, reaching for his friend.

            Dean took a step back, eyes narrowed.  “ _Fine?!_ Cas, you were tortured!”

            Castiel frowned.  “Yes, Dean, I’m aware.”

 Something in Dean finally seemed to snap at those words and the strained air of calm around them evaporated.  “You dumb son of a bitch, Cas, what were you thinking?” Dean hissed.  “Why would you do that?”

            Castiel’s legs wobbled when he pushed himself up, but he balled his fists and met Dean’s accusing look head on.  “I thought it was obvious.”

            “Damnit Cas!”  Dean snarled, taking a step forward.  Castiel narrowed his eyes and shoved past Dean, marching into the cover of the trees. “Cas, stop, don’t walk away from me.  Look at me!” Dean shouted, storming after him.  “We all could have made it out of there.  You didn’t have to give yourself up like a damn martyr!”

            Castiel whirled on Dean, jaw clenching stubbornly.  “You know as well as I do that if I had stopped shooting for even a moment, _none of us_ would have made it out of there.  I had the opportunity to give you a chance and I took it.”

            “Cas—” Dean began, reaching for Castiel’s shoulder.

            “Leave it, Dean.” Castiel growled, shoving Dean’s hand away.

            “No, hey,” Dean protested, grabbing at him again and shoving him against a gnarled,  ancient oak.  Castiel’s bare, tender back hit the solid trunk of the tree hard enough to have him hissing in pain and clenching his teeth, but Dean didn’t let up.  “You look at me.  I will not _leave it._   I don’t need you to fight for me, Cas.  I don’t want you to keep throwing yourself in front of me like that!” 

            Castiel gritted his teeth against the scrape of bark against his skin and shoved Dean away forcefully enough that he stumbled.  “Well too fucking bad, Dean.” He growled, advancing on the other man.  “I won’t stop.  Not ever.”  He shoved Dean again.  “I will fight for you ‘til the last, you stubborn son of a—” Castiel was mid-curse, frustrated anger flaring in his chest, when Dean darted his hands out to wrap around Castiel’s arms and yanked him forward.  Castiel’s snarled protest was cut off abruptly when Dean crashed their mouths together.  He shoved Castiel back until he hit the tree once more, and Dean followed him closely.  He swallowed down Castiel’s protests, biting at Castiel’s lips, licking into the warmth when Castiel opened his mouth on a whine.  Dean’s hands were everywhere—caressing his arms, dancing lightly over his chest, cradling his neck, and then his fingers were twisting tightly into Castiel’s hair, holding him in place while he pressed his whole body along Castiel’s.  At first, Castiel shoved at Dean, but when his brain began to process what was happening, his fingers scrabbled for purchase against Dean’s back, his nails digging into Dean’s muscles through the worn cloth of his shirt.

            All he could do was hold on.

            Dean’s hold was rough and his kisses were demanding and desperate, his and Castiel’s teeth clashing, hot wet tongues tangling, their bodies pressed close, caught on the edge of battle as they breathed into each other.  Slowly, Dean eased to gentle nips and licks, his sweet, swollen lips brushing adoringly over Castiel’s.  Castiel could feel the wetness of Dean’s tears sliding down his cheeks and staining Castiel’s own.  Finally, Dean broke away from Castiel’s mouth, panting, and proceeded to press his lips against Castiel’s jaw, his cheeks, his eyes, and all the way up to his forehead.  After he’d littered Castiel’s face with kisses, he pulled Castiel in for a tight embrace, tucking Castiel closely against him, and he murmured raggedly in Castiel’s ear, “Cas, God damn it… I need you to stay alive.  That’s all I need from you.  Stay alive for me.  We’re both gonna make it out of this.  I swear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I would love to hear what you think of it :)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Be safe tonight and I hope you enjoy the chapter :)

_June, 1864_

 

 

            They lost Frank and Anderson during the ambush.  Dean was sorry that they were dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret the decision to attack the sleeping camp.  The scout never even saw them coming and went down easily.  After that, all they had to do was take the torch to the tents and supplies.  Men spilled out into the night air, tired, confused, and met their bloody deaths. 

            Dean never thought he’d be the kind of man that would murder men in their sleep, but he’d done it.  Those fires flickered on the backs of his eyelids, even now, and he had no doubt that he’d remember that night, just like all the other horrors of this war.  But this time it was his own doing—he’d torched tents and wagons as he’d made his way through camp, and he’d blown holes in the men who’d run for their lives.  And he didn’t regret it.  He figured that somewhere along the way, every man became a monster.  He didn’t like it, but there was no going back now, and if it meant that Cas got to breathe for another day, Dean had no doubt in his heart that he’d do it again—a hundred times over, even. 

           

 

            Cas was curled up in a tight ball, arms wrapped comfortingly around himself under the light weight of the bedroll.  Dean poked at the fire, unable to sleep.  There was nothing he wanted more than to lie down next to Cas and pull him close, run his fingers through his friend’s hair and stroke his hands across Cas’s back to remind them both that Cas was alive and safe.  But Dean couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes.  Not yet.  Every time he did, he saw Cas again, slumped over and tied to a chair in the middle of a burning tent.  Every time Dean let his guard down, even for a moment, he felt that wave of panic drowning him again.

            He’d thought that Cas was dead.  Cas had been so still that Dean was sure that he was too late.  And even though he knew better now, he couldn’t seem to move past that fear.  Sense had nothing to do with it at this point.

            He reached out in the darkness and brushed the backs of his knuckles against the smooth skin of Cas’s cheek.  Aside from some bruises, his face was unmarred.  The bastard that had tortured him had chosen to focus instead on his hands and his chest, which was covered in criss-crossed slashes.  Cas’s ribs were bruised badly as well.  The son of a bitch who did it was lucky he was dead now.  If Dean had taken him alive, he wasn’t sure he’d be a good enough man to let him go without dealing back every single hurt a thousand fold.

            For now, though, it was enough to see Cas’s chest rise and fall steadily with each breath and know that he was alive.  It was enough to be able to touch him like this.  Dean could still taste Cas: the tang of smoke and blood had given way to something warmer, softer than that—a flavor that curled around Dean’s tongue and sank into his blood.  It was _Cas_ and Dean wanted more. 

            Dean stared down at his best friend and allowed himself to relive their kiss again, the desperate shoving and biting and groping in the close darkness of the forest.  It was one of the most intense things Dean had ever felt.  Cas’s body had molded so perfectly to Dean’s.  Dean’s fingers had tangled in Cas’s too-long, but still soft, wild black hair.  And when Dean had pressed his mouth to Cas’s, his friend had opened up to him so sweetly.  The feel of Cas’s fingers digging into Dean’s back, pulling him closer, was Heaven.  _Why_ had they waited so long to do that?  Every doubt, every caution that had filled Dean’s head in the past no longer seemed to be important.  The only thing that mattered now was staying by Cas’s side and letting him know what he meant to Dean.

            They were gonna make it through this alive.  Both of them.  Together.  Because nothing else mattered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Castiel’s fingers were stiff and sore, and his ribs pulled painfully when he breathed, but he still pulled a rifle into his hands and lined up his sights when the enemy troops came into view.  Dean started to protest, but Castiel glared at him, and Dean shut his mouth with a click.

            The Northern retribution for the massacre was swift.  It was two days after Castiel’s rescue—two days that he’d rested, and now he stood at attention once more, ready to lay down his life again.  The unit that marched toward the foothills of Lost Mountain rolled cannons with them, enough to blow craters into the side of the mountain.  Still, Castiel wasn’t afraid.  Not anymore.

            He took up his position on the right flank and settled in against a twisted old oak tree that jutted out over a rocky ledge.  Up the ridge behind him, Ben began to bang the drums.  Dean and Benny were near to him, the butts of their rifles pressed firmly into their shoulders, eyes narrowed against the glare of the rising sun.  Their own cannons were ranged on the ridge, ready to rain fire down upon their enemies on the approach.  Ash was directing their gunners, mouth pulled into a determined frown, eyes devoid of their usual laughter.

            Castiel could tell without any inquiry that the unit that marched toward them was a splinter group sent by the Angel of the North to distract and harass them while he no doubt directed the bulk of his forces to crushing their defense of Atlanta.  Well, there was nothing that Castiel could do about Atlanta right now, but he’d be damned if he let them take Lost Mountain. 

 

 

 

            The fiery ambush two nights past seemed to have given D Company a real taste for blood, and the battle of Lost Mountain was brutal.  Ash didn’t wait for the Union boys to launch an offensive attack; as soon as they were in range, he gave the signal for fire and before the Northerners knew what was happening, hot lead was pounding into their ranks from above.

            Castiel’s head was still fuzzy from the explosion two nights ago, but still his ears rang with gunfire as his fellows aimed and shot en masse according to Captain Singer’s orders.  Castiel perched calmly, as he was now accustomed to doing, and picked off the enemy gunners one at a time.

It was a mistake, the cannons—D Company was at too great an advantage on the mountain slopes, and the enemy fire pelted the side of the mountain, tearing up earth and stone, but killing no one.  Instead, rubble rained down on their own men, and the dust clouded their eyes and gritted up their rifles. 

            The Confederates took advantage and dispatched them mercilessly amid screams and drum beats.  Castiel took in steady breaths and squeezed the trigger of his borrowed rifle with his sore, swollen fingers.  Man after man dropped, and as others moved forward to take their spots, Castiel reloaded his rifle and lined up his sights once more.

            The slaughter was so swift that the Union men died before they could reach the upward slope of the mountain.  Their blood turned to mist under the heavy gunfire and hung thick on the air, choking the living and demoralizing them.  Castiel would pray for forgiveness later, after the war was done.  Until that time, he determined to hold his peace and aim true.

            It wasn’t a fair fight.  Castiel didn’t care.  He allowed himself to remember the fear he’d felt when his unit had been trapped in that copse of trees at the bottom of the valley, thinking that death was certain, and praying for a way to let Dean survive.  Part of him felt that same fear now, but the other part of him channeled it into the efficient motions of aim, fire, reload. 

            When the echoes of gunfire finally died and the cloud of blood and dust faded away, Castiel lowered his rifle, wiped an errant bead of sweat from his brow, and thanked God that his friends were all still alive.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Castiel perched on the ridge, rifle hefted against his shoulder in watchful rest, and  remembered the day the church bells tolled for poor Miss Sandy, who’d died in the night from fever—Castiel had been ten years old when it happened.  Miss Sandy had been a good woman, or at least that’s what Castiel had been told—a good, Christian woman—who the Lord had decided to bring home.  You could hear the bells through all of Forsyth as they carried on with their mournful clanging.

            Castiel remembered thinking that it was strange, sometimes, what garnered the attention of the people.  And what went unsaid.  Miss Sandy had died old in her bed.  The bells tolled their grief. 

            Castiel had known for a fact that a slave woman had died bloody just two nights before that.  There had been no bells for her.

Now Castiel allowed himself to reminisce as he stood guard on Lost Mountain and overlooked the carnage that they’d wrought in the valley.

            It wasn’t the first time Castiel watched her pick her way across the battlefield: the _Morrigan_.  He’d watched her from a distance at Chickamauga as she rolled the bodies over, hefted them onto her cart.  He knew she was much stronger than she looked under the dirty and blood-stained blouse and skirts.  She was beautiful in her melancholy; dutiful, and straight-faced, though her eyes were fathomless.

            The pickers followed the sweeping swath of carnage: some carrion crows foraging for bits of silver and brass among the bloated corpses, some seeking even more grim souvenirs.  Others, though, served a more noble purpose: that of caring for the dead after the living had swept away, eager to forget the sight of so many fallen comrades.  It was these dark angels that Castiel was fascinated by—the ones that stepped lightly through the tangle of limbs and blood-spattered grass to search the bodies for any living, to line up the dead neatly and identify them.  To wash their bodies so that they could be sent home, or buried with some semblance of dignity.  The thing Castiel loved most about these people, these silent shadows, was that it didn’t matter to them which side those poor boys had been on in life.  In death, they were all equal, all deserving of tenderness and respect as they were laid to rest.

            On the bloody fields of Chickamauga, Castiel had not spoken to the woman.  He’d watched her from afar.  She appeared fragile in her dark beauty.  Long, dark hair that blew around her face as she tread carefully across the place of slaughter, pale gray skirts billowing around her legs.  He couldn’t discern the emotion in her dark eyes from the distance, but her face was relaxed.  Castiel wondered what circumstances had brought a woman such as this to the evidence of humanity’s darkness.

            He didn’t speak to her now, but he watched her silently, eyes tracking her movements as she checked for a trace of life in each fallen soldier.  Briefly, she raised her eyes to the ridge where he stood guard, and their gazes locked.  It almost felt like she might recognize him too.  Maybe she would tend to _him_ , as well, before the war was over.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year my lovely readers! <3

_July, 1864_

 

            The Chattahoochee River was wide, and fast-flowing, and cut sporadically by the jagged stone teeth of the mountain and the white foam of rapids.  Calm, deep stretches were bracketed by shallower, stony waters.  It was a bitch to cross: either men and horses had to swim across the deeper parts in an arduous process, or they had to make their way across the treacherous, pitted stone beds that bordered the rapids—here one wrong step could mean a twisted ankle or broken leg.  Over the years, strategic crossing points had been identified and bridges built to safeguard travel across the mighty Chattahoochee.  Eight miles northwest of Peachtree Creek, such a bridge spanned the width of the river and allowed for the supply trains from the Southwest to enter into Atlanta. 

            Georgia Command ordered that D Company take up position north of the river to guard the crossing, but Captain Bobby Singer was not a foolish man.  He might only be a Captain, but he prided himself on his practical thinking and so he kept these orders to himself, and destroyed the paper that the rider had brought from Atlanta.  Command could say whatever they liked, but Captain Singer knew a tactical disaster when he saw one, and he’d be damned before he posted his boys on a rocky shore with a river at their backs to block a retreat.  It was better to take up position on the southern shore, build up blockades and defenses, and shoot a constant volley of bullets and cannon fire across the river at any enemy troops who were foolish enough to try to cross the river while under a steady barrage. 

            Captain Bobby Singer was confident that he could hold the crossing, but he was determined that he’d do it in his own way.  He wasn’t gonna have the blood of his men on his hands, and if command wanted to courts martial him over the offense, they were welcome to give it their best try.

* * *

 

 

 

 

            The natural hills on the southern edge of the river were easy to reinforce with wooden palisades and extended earthenworks.  The ground was wet—turned to mud by the uncounted steps of soldiers’ boots and the slow tide of the river that allowed the water to soak through their defenses where nothing else could.  Still, despite the mud, the new defenses were a nice place to sit; the steady evaporation of river water cooled the air and the shade of over-grown trees shielded the soldiers from the sun. 

            Castiel, Dean, and Andy sat on makeshift log benches mending the myriad holes in their clothes in companionable silence when Chuck came ‘round on mail call.  Chuck cleared his throat in his usual nervous way and muttered “Have something for you today, Winchester,” before he shoved a thick envelope into Dean’s hands and then carried on through the camp with his mail bag.

            Dean shot Cas a wary glance before he pulled the envelope open and unfolded the stack of papers inside.  He blew out a relieved breath when he saw the handwriting and said “It’s a letter from Sammy.”  Andy rose from his seat and patted Dean on the back before he took his leave to give them some privacy.  Cas sat forward on his seat and waited with eager ears as Dean read through the letter aloud.

 

_Dearest Dean and Cas,_

_Your letter came just in time when you warned us to run.  Me and Jo and Aunt Ellen packed the day we got your warning, and it wasn’t too soon.  It was hard for us to leave—we didn’t have much in the way of provisions, and we only had the one rifle to protect ourselves with, but we loaded up our bags and carried what we could.  I’m sorry to say that we left the homestead—Dean, I know you told us to go, but something about walking away from our land still feels wrong to me.  Maybe if you were still here, we could have fought for it, but there was nothing more for us to do than what we did._

_In truth, we barely made it out with our lives.  Union soldiers arrived in Forsyth the night before we left, and as we made our way out of town (using the game paths through the forest because the roads were all guarded), we saw them setting fire to the post office, just like you said that they’d done to other places.  I don’t know who those men were, Dean, but I still don’t understand.  What good comes from burning towns and homes?  I guess I’m not suited to war, after all, because I can’t see any sense in it. The only people left in the towns are women and children and old men who aren’t a threat to anyone anymore.  So what good is it?_

_Cas: Aunt Ellen found out what she could for you before we left, but it’s a sad story, and I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this way.  The Union troops took over your home for their center of operations for the time being, but Aunt Ellen heard one of the soldiers say that they’d likely burn it down before they moved on.  They were looting it as we packed our things to leave.  The soldiers were carrying all your family’s remaining valuables down the line, most likely to be sold for the war effort, but we couldn’t be sure.  Your mother and father were long gone before the Union troops came, but I don’t know where they went to, and no one else in town knew either, or else they just weren’t talking.  But they left in a hurry, and Mrs. Fischer said that when they tried to take some of the servants with them, there was a fight, and the slaves got hold of some weapons to defend themselves with.  Rumor has it that one of the stable lads pulled a knife on your father, and your father shot that boy, but the damage had been done, and there was no going back.  The slaves were going to kill your parents, but they got away, and the slaves took over the big house for themselves before the soldiers arrived._

_When the Union soldiers arrived, the slaves gave the house and the land up to them without a fight, and welcomed them in through the front door.  It was a good thing, I suppose: bloodless, at least.  The Union soldiers freed those slaves, Cas.  I don’t wanna say too much in this letter, but I thought you’d like to know that: they were ALL set free._

_Missouri came to us on the morning before we left, and she told us what had happened.  She said that she was leaving to try to find her sister, but she told me to tell you to take care of yourself, and that she sends you her love.  You’re in her prayers, Cas, and she said that someday, when the war is all done, she will try to find you again.  I believe with all my heart that she will make it through this, Cas.  I do believe that._

_We made it to Savannah a little more than a week ago and for the moment, we are all safe.  We found lodging at a boarding house near the center of the city.  Aunt Ellen found work cooking and cleaning for the elderly couple who own the house.  We all share a room, and it is cramped, but it is clean and we all have enough to eat.  That’s what’s important now._

_I’ve found work as a clerk and courier for a local attorney who has an office a couple blocks away from the boarding house.  Mr. Balthazar Roche is a rather flippant man whose people are of Louisiana French stock.  I can’t say that he is necessarily a particularly honorable man, but he doesn’t care that we are refugees, and he has agreed to give me work so long as we are in the city.  He was happy enough to learn that I can read and write, and am passable at maths, and so I mostly run errands for Mr. Roche.  We are blessed, Dean, that we have been granted these opportunities in the midst of war._

_Aunt Ellen is strong as ever and Jo is being very brave about everything.  She keeps asking for ways that she can help, but as of yet, Aunt Ellen has forbidden her from leaving the relative safety of the boarding house.  We all miss you both, but the point of this letter is to let you know that for now, we are all safe.  And we hope that you both are safe as well._

_I never saw the ocean before we came to Savannah, Dean, but it is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on.  I hope that sometime soon you can join us here and see it too.  We love you both and pray for your safe return to us._

_Love,_

_Sam, Jo, & Ellen_

 

            Dean re-folded the letter with numbed fingers and passed it over to Cas, whose blue eyes held a swirl of relief and sadness.  Dean exhaled the breath that he’d been holding and thanked God that his family was safe. 

            He hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on them over-long in the last couple months, but the weight of their wellbeing had worn him down and hung heavy on his shoulders.  Now he could breathe for a moment, knowing that for now at least, the people that he loved the most were all alive and well. 

            He was silent as Cas reread the letter to himself, but after, when the paper was set aside and his friend stared back at him with unfathomable eyes, Dean understood.  Cas’s parents were his blood, but they were never really his family.  They’d never really loved him, and though he’d tried to please them as a child, he’d never been able to satisfy them.  Missouri had been Cas’s family, and now she was tossed to the wind, free to make her own way, but subject to the capriciousness of fate. 

            Dean rose from his seat and moved closer to Cas, so that their shoulders and knees touched.  Dean reached out and ever-so-lightly brushed his fingertips over the back of Cas’s hand where it rested in his lap.  “She’ll be alright, Cas.  You know she will.”

            Cas turned to Dean, then, and he looked young again, despite the weariness in his face.  “Do you believe that?”

            Dean allowed himself a smile for his friend.  “Hell yeah, I do.  Missouri is one of the stubbornest people I know.  I think she’ll find what she’s looking for, Cas.”  Dean brushed an errant wisp of hair from Cas’s eyes and allowed his hand to linger just for a moment, soaking in the warmth of Cas’s skin.  “A skinny, blue-eyed boy once told me that I should have a little faith.”

            Cas’s expression was unreadable.  “And do you?  Still?  After everything?”

            Dean bumped Cas’s knee with his own.  “In some things, yeah.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter goes a ways toward easing some of the owies this story has inflicted. Enjoy ;)
> 
> Warning for M/M sex (though if that bothers you, you're in the wrong place)

_July, 1864_

            The twilight sky was still dark, lit at the edges with a starburst of pink and pale blue, when Dean woke.  The rest of the camp slept on in their bedrolls, with the exception of the scouts who patrolled the northern banks of the Chattahoochee.  Dean would have slept too, but when he’d rolled over, his arm hit empty air where Cas was supposed to be.

            The morning air was chill and heavy with dew when Dean pushed his way out of the tent he shared with Andy, Ben, and Cas.  Water droplets clung to his skin as he made his way through the twisting limbs of trees and grasping underbrush toward the place he knew Cas would be. 

            It wasn’t hot yet, but it would be later.  When the sun rose high in the sky, the air would become stifling and would stick, suffocating, to Dean’s skin and soak his hair.  He spent most of his days drenched in his own sweat, and his clothes smelled the worst for it, but that was later.  Now it was still cool and quiet, and he had time yet.

 

 

            Dean heard soft splashing before the deep pool of the creek came into view.  He stepped lightly, loathe to break the relative quiet.  Dean followed the game trail around a large oak tree and saw a set of damp trousers and a shirt draped over one of the lowest branches, still dripping.  Dean cast his gaze across the span of open water to the source of the splashing.  He took a step forward and his boots crunched on the gravel of small river stones washed up on the bank.

            The splashing stopped and Cas turned toward the noise, eyes wide and startled, hands pausing in the motion of washing himself.  His hair was wet and stuck in dark swirls to his forehead and neck.  His pale skin glittered with countless droplets of water and Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away.  His mouth had gone dry and he licked his lips, all nerves, when Cas failed to turn away. 

            The air was silent and heavy between them for a time, during which each of them stared at the other, waiting, on the edge, for the other to make the first move in this new, uncertain situation.  Finally, Cas cleared his throat and in his usual deep rumble, said “Good morning, Dean.  What brings you out here so early?”

            Dean shifted on his feet but refused to lower his eyes.  “I woke up and you weren’t there.”  Despite his best efforts, a touch of anxiety bled into his voice at this pronouncement and Dean wondered if Cas thought he was dumb for worrying.

            Cas shrugged languidly, however, unbothered.  The movement rippled the water around his arms.  “I’m right here.”

            Dean ran a hand nervously back through his hair.  “What are you doing alone out here?”

            Again, Cas shrugged.  “I couldn’t sleep.  And my clothes needed washing anyhow, so….”  He gestured vaguely toward his hanging clothes.  “Anyway, the water feels nice.”  Cas swiped his arms through the water and Dean could see his pale skin shimmer through the greenish hue.

            “Yeah?”  Dean gulped.  “Come to think of it, I could use a wash too.”

            Cas dropped his gaze toward the water and his voice was much quieter when he suggested “Then maybe you should join me.”

            Dean sucked in a startled breath and the sound drew Cas’s deep blue gaze back toward him.  With their eyes locked once more, Dean didn’t bother answering with words.  Instead, he kicked off his boots and then he put his fingers to work on the buttons of his shirt and worked each one slowly, with great care, until the fabric hung open on his shoulders.  Then he shrugged and allowed it to slide down his arms to land on the rocky creek bank.  Cas’s eyes tracked the movements of Dean’s fingers during the process and followed them to the hem of Dean’s pants.  He watched, mouth agape, eyes wide, as Dean pushed the material over the ridge of his hips and down his thighs until it, too, pooled on the ground.  The cool morning air kissed him, felt wonderful on his bare, feverish skin.  The first daring dip of his feet into the water of the creek raised goosebumps on his skin and he sucked in a shocked breath.  “’S cold.”  He murmured.

            Cas gulped and finally tore his gaze away again—in fact he turned his whole body away so that his back faced Dean.  “You get used to it.”  His voice was gruffer than it had been only a few moments before.

            Cas was right.  With each step through the slow, swirling water, Dean’s body adjusted to the shock of the sharp temperature drop, though he couldn’t help the shiver that shook down his body when the waterline reached his waist. 

            The water was halfway up Dean’s chest by the time he reached Cas.  Cas kept his back turned, but Dean knew he was aware of his approach because his back tensed as Dean drew near, and he could see his friend shivering.  Dean’s feet shifted in the sand and pebbles under his feet, slightly slippery with algae.  “Cas.”  Dean whispered, voice thick.

            “Dean.”  Cas’s voice shook with nerves.

            Dean took that last step toward Cas, the step that had his skin brushing Cas’s with the slightest encouragement of the water’s current.  Tentatively, Dean raised his arms and wrapped them around Cas’s waist, curling them closely around his friend’s body and folding them over his soft belly.  He pulled Cas closer, gently, until the wonderfully warm skin of Cas’s back pressed into Dean’s chest.  “Cas.”  Dean tipped his head down so that his forehead rested at the top of Cas’s spine and he could smell the warm, comforting scent of Cas’s skin—the scent that reminded Dean of sunshine, grass, and spring flowers.  “Tell me this is okay.”  Dean murmured, his lips brushing against the sharp jut of one of Cas’s shoulder blades.

            Cas’s answer was a stifled whine, pulled from his throat, and a shifting of his shoulders so that his neck was bared to Dean for better access.  The first press of Dean’s lips to Cas’s shoulder had Cas shivering.  Cas’s skin was smooth and hot, and it tasted like the creek but there was a warm, slightly-musky undertone that was all Cas and had Dean’s blood sizzling in his veins.  Dean nosed at the leather cord of Cas’s old button necklace, a soft, satisfied smile curling his lips with the knowledge that his friend still wore it, through everything: his own little piece of Dean.  A thin line of paler, raised skin cut over Cas’s left shoulder blade and Dean kissed it too, swiped his tongue lightly across it.  Cas had gotten the scar when he’d fallen out of a tree when they were twelve.  Dean had tended to it then, as well.

            He tightened his arms around Cas’s waist, flattened his palms to Cas’s belly and stroked soothing circles into his skin.  Cas shuddered.  “ _Dean_.”  Dean’s name broke on Cas’s lips, a desperate whine.

            “I’m here, Cas.”  Dean nuzzled the back of his friend’s neck, brushed his nose through the dark, damp curls of Cas’s hair.  “Not leaving you.”  Dean’s fingers skimmed upward to Cas’s lean, muscled chest, trailed the pads of his fingers over the new, raised scars that littered his flesh.  “Never again.”  The slightly roughened skin of Dean’s palm brushed over a pert nipple and Cas sucked in a startled breath.  “Thought I lost you.”

            “You—ah—you almost did.”  Cas hissed when Dean clamped his teeth sharply on the muscle of his shoulder.

            “Don’t wanna be without you, Cas.”  Dean murmured, licking lightly over the bite, his hands pausing.

            Cas gave a short nod.  “I don’t want to be without you either.”

            “Do you want this?”  Dean stroked his hands downward, over the taut flesh of Cas’s hips, and up over his ribs. 

            Cas gasped, voice shaky when he stuttered out “God y-yes.”

            Dean groaned and Cas turned his head to the side so that they could see each other.  Dean leant forward enough to press their lips together; it was hot and awkward, and sloppy when Cas opened his mouth to Dean and their tongues brushed against each other, but it was wonderful.  Dean trailed his hands down further, until he could stroke over the already-hard length of Cas’s cock.  “Nnngh, Dean!”  Cas gasped.  Dean curled his fingers around Cas and began to move his hand against his friend in the same way that Dean always pleased himself.  The heavy glide of hot, silky flesh in his hand was perfect.

            Cas moaned again, the sound vibrating in his chest and throat, and tipped his head back against Dean’s shoulder.  He shifted back so that his whole body was pressed tightly against Dean’s, and he shuddered when Dean’s own hardness pressed at the cleft of his ass.  He wiggled his hips and Dean huffed, his own hips jerking forward so that his erection slid sweetly against the swell of Cas’s ass.

            Dean rocked against him, building his own rhythm to match that of his hand on Cas.  Their labored, panting breaths were counterpoint to one another, and the sound of Cas gasping into Dean’s ear as he brought his friend closer to the edge of pleasure was intoxicating.  “W-wanted you for—ah—s-so long.”  Dean ground out.  Cas shoved back against Dean and rotated his hips just enough to torture them both.  He wrapped his arms up and back around Dean’s neck, bracing himself, holding them both up.  The friction was torture, but Dean never wanted it to end. 

            They’d waited so long, and for what?  They were meant to be this way, they had always been moving toward this point.  Dean thrust against Cas, his eyes rolling back and mouth dropping open when Cas whined again, low in his throat.  Dean’s hand sped up and Cas panted “Oh God, oh God, Dean.  Dean.” 

            “Cas, God Cas, you feel so good.”  Dean rutted his cock against Cas, desperate, wanting more, so much more.  Cas thrust backwards to meet Dean and the water splashed around them.  Dean’s hand stuttered and the pump of his hips became erratic.  “You’re perfect.  I love you.  God, I love you.”  Dean gave his wrist a twist and Cas cried out “Nnngghh…Deeeean!”  Warmth spilled over Dean’s hand only a moment before the world whited out and he too tipped over the edge, all of his muscles tightening and cock twitching before he slumped against his friend.

            They came down slowly, chests heaving, breathing labored breaths against one another.  The sun was just beginning to peek through the trees, turning the sky blue and gold, chasing the shadows away.  Cas fit perfectly against Dean, body warm and slack, but almost weightless in the water.  Dean tightened his arms around Cas, loathe to let go, even for a moment.

            Dean knew that they could never come back from what they’d just done.  But then, sin or not, Dean didn’t want to.

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter folks, but it had to be done this way. Longer one next time, I promise! :)

_July, 1864_

 

            Dean and Cas stood guard on the northern bank of the river, rifles propped against their shoulders as they marched lazily back and forth along the tree line.  Cas cleared his throat, eyes narrowed in concentration as he peered into the shadows of the forest.  “We could have been caught.”  He said, voice oddly calm and without inflection.

            Dean scoffed and kicked a stone out of his way.  “But we weren’t.”

            Cas turned his eyes to Dean for a brief moment, then looked away.  “It was stupid of us.  Reckless.”

            Dean frowned.  “No one saw us, Cas.”

            “And if they had?  Do you have any idea what they might do to us if they found out?”

            Dean gritted his teeth together.  “Yeah, Cas, I have an idea.  But you know what?  I don’t give a fuck.  That’s not what’s important to me.”

            Castiel raised his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at the dark twist of trees before them, eyes narrowing on the movement of a branch in the breeze.  “It can’t happen again.”

            “ _What?_ ”  Dean’s stomach twisted painfully.  _No_.  “You don’t mean it, Cas.”

            Cas turned steady blue eyes on Dean.  “It’s too dangerous.”  Then he turned and marched toward the trees, conversation over.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean sat near the fire, feet sore from climbing over rocks on guard rotation.  He held his Colt in his hand and lovingly stroked an oilcloth over the etched words on the middle.  _Non timebo mala._ Dean wished it was true, but he was afraid of a lot of things, really.  Mostly, it didn’t seem to matter, because Dean did what he had to anyway.  But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.  Because he did. _Always._

            Cas found him there, broodingly contemplating the fire.  His friend took a seat next to him on the makeshift bench but didn’t look at him or speak to him for a long stretch of time.  It was alright—Dean and Cas had spent quite a bit of time sitting in silence with each other over the years, and it had never been strange. 

            “Did you mean it?”

            “What?”

            “What you said.”

            Dean sighed.  “Cas—I say a lot of things.”

            Cas twined his fingers together but refused to look at Dean.  “You said you love me.”  The words were barely a whisper.

            Dean huffed.  “’Course I meant it.”  He set the gun aside.  “Cas, man.  You’re my best friend.  My family.  How could you not know how I feel about you?”

            Cas looked at him then, and the depth of the sadness reflected in his eyes made Dean want to tug his friend into his arms, but remembering their earlier conversation, Dean held himself back.  “Cas,” Dean croaked.  He swallowed down all of the words jumbling in his throat.  “Look…. I—God, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a girl.”  He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck.  Cas’s wide blue eyes followed the motion.  “When I look at you I see the messy-headed kid I pulled out of the creek when we were ten.  I see the boy who taught me to read when I didn’t think I was smart enough to learn.  I see the kid I taught how to fight.  I see you lying in the field back home, smiling up at me.  I see the man who marched off to war just to stay by my side, the man who was willing to die for me.  Cas, you’re all the good things to me, man.”  Dean huffed a self-deprecating laugh.  “I’ve always loved you, Cas.” He murmured.

            “And I you, Dean.”  Cas’s voice was gravelly with the effort of holding back his emotions.  Cas blinked rapidly and glanced down at his own knees.  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Dean.”

            Dean reached out a trembling hand and gripped Cas’s shoulder.  “Yeah, I remember.”

            Cas’s eyes were sheened with tears that Dean knew he’d never shed.  “We are in a precarious position, Dean.  I meant what I said this morning.  If anyone were to find out about us, the consequences…. I couldn’t bear it, Dean.  Not after everything.”  Cas ran a hand over his tired face.  “But what we did,” Here he had to pause, and Dean could see a blush coloring his cheeks.  “I won’t deny that I’ve… _wanted_ … for years.”  Cas’s laugh was stilted, awkward.  “I never thought it was possible.  I never thought you’d want me.”

            Dean squeezed Cas’s shoulder until his friend looked up and met his eyes.  Dean held them, willing Cas to understand, to feel the depth of his conviction, when he said “It’s only ever been you, Cas.”

 

* * *

 

 

            They got used to dodging stray bullets; most of them lodged harmlessly in the earthenworks they’d built at the river’s edge, but some of them struck true.   Azazel caught a bullet in the throat while he was on patrol and no one found him until he’d bled out and his body had gone cold.  Dean wasn’t sorry to see the son of a bitch go, but the presence of sharp shooters made him itch under his skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            “God, I just want it to be over.  I almost don’t care who wins anymore.”  Dean mumbled into his bowl of beans.

            Across the fire, his companions’ heads perked up.  Benny paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.  “Half ‘a Georgia’s burnin’, brother.”

            Dean snorted.  “The whole South’s burning, man.  We’re losing.”

            Ben shifted uncomfortably where he’d been sitting on Dean’s left, and flicked his eyes back and forth between Dean and Benny.

            Benny sat his bowl aside.  “I hope you aint thinking of doing something stupid, Winchester.”

            Dean shoved another spoonful of beans in his mouth and mumbled around them “What?  Making a run for it?  Abandoning my post?”  He could feel Cas’s eyes burning into the side of his head, but he refused to look.  He swallowed thickly.  “Nah, man.  Wouldn’t do me any good.  My family’s in Savannah and I’d die before I abandoned them to this war.  ‘Sides, it’s not really in my nature.”

            Benny chuckled and picked up his bowl again.  “Didn’t think it was.  You and Pussycat are dumb sons of bitches but you’re loyal.”  He shook his head, still laughing.  “And the pair of you have got balls of steel.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this week! I'm on a roll ;)

_August, 1864_

 

 

_Dearest Sammy, Ellen, & Jo,_

_I think about you all every single day—sometimes the thought that this army is all that stands between you and the Union boys gives me chills, but it’s also what keeps me fighting.  I hope that you are doing well.  I hope that you enjoy Savannah—at least a little.  I don’t know how long you will have to be there.  This war has already gone on much longer than anyone ever predicted, and who knows?  It might go on forever, because the Union will never stop, and neither will we.  Not as long as our homes are still under threat._

_I can’t tell you where we’re at, but be comforted to know that we are safer now than we have been any other place since winter time.  The boys are all tired, but we try to keep in good spirits anyhow.  We still sing, sometimes._

_We had a bad time a little while back.  I’ll spare you all the details because I don’t want to worry you, but I feel like I have to tell someone who will really understand._

_I thought I lost Cas.  The dumb son of a bitch nearly got himself killed trying to save the rest of us, but we weren’t letting him go without a fight and we saved him too._

_Sammy, I still wear that hoodoo necklace you gave me from ol’ Pamela Barnes and I swear to God, it must work, because against all odds, both me and Cas are still alive and kicking._

_I miss you all so much, and I can’t wait until this damned war is over so that I can see you all again.  Keep yourselves safe._

_With love,_

_Dean & Cas_

 

* * *

 

            They managed to hold their position on the Chattahoochee, even after the Union boys blew the rail lines north of the river.  They lost all of the supplies the train was meant to deliver to them, supplies that they’d been depending on.  Not just boots and bags of wheat and oats and dried beans, but barrels of gunpowder and boxes of bullets. 

            D Company was firmly entrenched on the south side of the river which Captain Singer kept manned even as he struggled to maneuver their current circumstances.  The Northern unit sent by the Angel of the North to block any attempted northern advance by D Company kept well into the tree line, never advancing in formation.  They sent their own sharp-shooters occasionally, shooters who were skilled and patient and waited until patrols were singled out before picking them off one by one.  Thing was, D Company had their own sharp shooter, and Cas spent most of his days perched in a tree far enough back behind their perimeter to grant him protection, and whenever a Union soldier was foolish enough to step foot beyond the tree line, Cas picked him off with practiced efficiency.

            Reports trickled in from command, detailing the movements of the Northern units, and all of their underhanded victories.  Some of the messengers growled about the Angel of the North and his cowardly tactics, charged that he was no real man because he was obviously afraid to meet the Confederate strength on a field of battle that granted both armies equal footing.  Bobby called those men idjits and ordered them from the camp with his own terse replies that D Company would continue to do its job, regardless.

            Warnings came of attacks in the night, of the downfall of village after village, looted and sacked and put to the torch.  Still, through it all, Dean was amazed by the endurance of Southern bravado, of the honest belief from some of his superiors that they were still gonna win this war.  That it was simply a matter of holding their ground and waiting out the Union troops.  Thankfully Bobby ignored these warnings and dismissed the bluffs out of hand because Dean knew that these men must be incredibly stupid, or else they hadn’t left their cushy command centers in far too long.  Men were sick, and starving, and they were running out of bullets and were being continually pushed back, further south and east, until eventually, their backs were gonna be pressed to the sea and there would be nowhere else for them to run.

 

 

 

            They could have held out for much longer.  In fact, they were determined to.  Only, two days after the reports stopped coming, the Union troops set fire to the countryside.

 

 

 

            The day was still and warm and clear, and the scouts marching along the river’s edge saw the smoke plume from more than a mile off.  It started as a dark smudge against brilliant blue, almost mistakable as the wisp of a storm cloud.  But it grew unnaturally fast, expanding to a haze that floated over the sun and cast the sky in a sickly orange hue.  The scouts shouted back to camp to be on high alert.  The smoke rose in great, gray, rolling clouds now.  The air stank of burning wood.

            By the time Dean’s own throat grew parched from breathing in the corrupted air, they could see the flames glowing through the tangle of trees on the north side of the river.  Bobby ordered every man to put a wet rag over his face to breathe through, and it helped a little.  “We’re gonna hold here, men.  We’ve got a whole damn river between us and their damn foolishness.  We can keep the fire back!”  And so they formed bucket lines to start hauling water to their earthen blockades and wooden palisades.  “Drench everything!  Hopefully it won’t do more than smolder!”

           

 

 

            There was nothing more they could have done.  The fire leapt the river and spread faster than the bailers could put it out.  The smoke rolled through the forest, thick and choking, the flames fast on its heels.  It burned through soldiers’ lungs, corrupting them, bringing grown men to their knees, gasping.  “Retreat!”  Bobby yelled, before he, too, hunched over, coughing and gasping. 

            The fire roared around them, eating up the undergrowth that was dry and brittle after the start of a hot summer with little rain.  It climbed through the trees, without pattern or sense, just hunger.  Devouring.  Destroying.  Draping them all in a pall of smoke and ash. 

            Dean grasped for his pack and called for Cas, who was already dodging through swirls of smoke to join him.  Dean clutched at the fabric of Cas’s shirt and tugged him along, terrified to let him go for even a moment.  All around them, trees began to pop and creak as they were consumed—the fire was already hot enough that the bark exploded around them like gunshots, firing shrapnel into the air.

            They groped blindly for each other and their companions, stumbled through the tangled underbrush and thick smoke that slowed them with each inhale.  Somewhere in the dense, hot roll of smoke, another tree exploded, shattering splinters of bark over their heads, and Dean heard someone scream. 

            But they had to keep going.  They couldn’t turn back.  It wasn’t the same as fighting through a camp of soldiers, or even playing chicken with another rifle-bearing enemy.  The fire had no prejudice, no care for the life that it devoured.  Union and Confederate alike, innocent nature; nothing was exempt from the path of its fury. 

They kept on, following the creeks that branched from the Chattahoochee, desperate for a glimpse of blue sky, a breath of fresh air.  Ash clung to their skin, smothering them.  It mixed with their sweat, cementing their clothes to their bodies, turning to thick gray mud on their faces.  It clogged up their noses and choked them. 

            It was almost too much, even, just to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to just keep moving.  Only abject terror kept Dean on his feet.  This was so much worse than the press of bodies moving downhill at Chattanooga or the anxiety of watching Cassville burn.  There was no fighting this.  The fire would burn them all down to nothing.

            Dean’s ears grew deaf to anything but the roaring of the flames and the fearful shouts of his companions.  The smoke was so thick he could barely see in front of him, but Cas had a painful grip on Dean’s wrist and was tugging him along now.  It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, gasps wracking his body, and he doubled over suddenly, wheezing and retching.  The meager contents of his stomach spilled onto the ground, and still he coughed.  His vision began to darken at the edges, and he was afraid the fire was about to take him.  “Dean!”  Cas shouted.  Dean slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, his legs collapsed underneath him.  He was aware of the sharp pain of hot earth burning his knees, of the flesh of his hands blistering.  “Dean!”  His lungs _were_ fire—oh God, was he breathing it in?!  Was this the end, after everything?  “Dean!”  Cas sounded further away now.  Maybe someone had pulled him back, just like they’d done to Dean at Lost Mountain.  Maybe there was no saving Dean this time.  Dean fought to get his feet back under himself again, but it was useless.  He was disconnected from them now, disconnected from everything.  Floating. 

            When the darkness closed around Dean, this time he welcomed it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            He came to sputtering, gagging.  The world was too bright, too loud, and every breath that he took made him wish he was dead. 

            Somewhere, someone was screaming.

            “Hold him down, damn it!”  A wail of pain and a sob rang in Dean’s ears.  “I said hold him down!”  Even through the fog in Dean’s head, he recognized Cas’s voice, would recognize it anywhere.  “Bite down on this!”  Dean forced his body to roll over, even though every single muscle burned, and though he quivered uncontrollably, he managed to push himself to his hands and knees.  He blinked against the whiteness clouding his vision, and eventually it subsided enough to see the vague shape of what was happening in front of him.  Another scream.  Benny and Bobby were holding Garth down while Cas crouched over him.  The terrible cries belonged to Garth, who had blood all over his face.  Others slumped on the ground nearby—exhausted, defeated, probably just thankful to be alive.

            Dean was so focused on the grim tableau unfolding before him, he didn’t even realize someone had approached him until a firm hand gripped his shoulder and a canteen was shoved in front of his face.  “Here,” Ben said.  Dean grasped for the water and guzzled it down—he spluttered once, but the wetness of it was a balm on his wrecked throat. 

            “What—happened?”  Dean croaked.  He raised his eyes and was finally able to get a good luck at the boy.  Dried tear tracks streamed down Ben’s face, cutting dirty swaths in the gray mud that mottled his skin.

            “You were unconscious.  Cas carried you out.”

            Dean nodded.  Of course that’s what happened.  But not what he’d meant.  “Not—me.  Garth.”

            Ben shook his head sadly.  “Tree exploded right next to him and the bark splintered into his face.”

            “Oh God.”  Dean gasped.

            “Cas is doing what he can.  ‘S all we can do.”

 

 

 

            They had no medic. 

            What Castiel knew, he’d learned in whispered lessons from Missouri while tending sick and injured slaves in the dead of night. 

            It wasn’t enough. 

            Castiel cleaned the wound and plucked the slivers of wood from Garth’s face where he could, but some of them were too small, or went too deep.  Garth shook and wept and screamed throughout.  Castiel was able to stop the bleeding, mostly, and he brewed up a concoction to clean the wound and a poultice to help keep infection from settling in. 

            The bark had sprayed wide across the whole right side of Garth’s face.  Despite Castiel’s best efforts, he hadn’t been able to save Garth’s eye.  A splinter had lodged under the lid, and Castiel simply didn’t have the skill or the tools to deal with it.  He’d done what he could, but he feared that this would be a losing battle.  _If_ Garth lived, which Castiel knew it was likely he might not, he’d carry the scars on his face for the rest of his life and he’d never see from his right eye again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love! Also, here's my tumblr, if you're curious: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/ I'd love to hear from you! :D


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll this week! 3 chapters and counting :) I hope you all enjoy and I would love to hear from you!

_September, 1864_

 

_And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him._

_Revelation 6:8_

 

            Bobby strode across the make-shift camp where his men were slowly recuperating and looked more rag-tag than they ever had before, even after having come straight from battle.  They’d managed to escape the fiery death the Angel of the North had planned for them, but they’d lost a lot anyway.  Most of them still smelled like smoke and ash, and no matter how hard they tried, the aroma couldn’t be washed out of their clothes.  No matter.  It was better than the smell of piss and blood that usually hung thick on a camp like this.

            He found Chuck poking disconsolately at a cook fire near the edge of camp, his face still smudged with gray streaks like he hadn’t even bothered to wash.  Bobby came to stand in front of him, crossed his arms, and barked “Shurley, report!  What is the status of our supplies?”

            Chuck pouted and stabbed at the fire again before chucking the stick into the flames.  He frowned up at Bobby.  “Um… the status?  They’re all gone.  We _have no supplies._ ”

            “Nothing?”  Bobby growled.

            “Nope.  Fire got it all.”

            Bobby huffed.  “Shurley, it was your job to get the supply wagon _out of there._ ”

            “Oh, I’m sorry!  You try hauling that thing through the burning underbrush while the horses are going crazy and doing their best to kick your head in!”

            Bobby glowered at him.  “Watch your tone, Chuck, you insubordinate bastard.”

            Chuck giggled manically.  “You’re right, Captain.  Sorry.  Nothing I could do, though.  Had to cut the horses loose or we woulda lost them too.”

            Bobby ran a hand down his tired face.  “Alright.  Well, I want you to take stock of what every man was able to bring out of that mess.  The men have still gotta eat, God damn it, so we’ll work with what we’ve got.”

 

* * *

 

 

            It never failed to amaze Dean.  Garth’s head was covered in bandages and he looked like Death was lurking just one step behind him—he was more pale and frail looking than usual, and a strange pungent odor clung to him.  Blood had seeped through his bandages so that Cas had to constantly wash them and change them, but Garth was still holding on.  And what really struck Dean was that through it all, Garth was still smiling and laughing, even though the use of those muscles sometimes pulled painfully at his wounds.  He’d flinch momentarily, but then brush the pain off, and carry on with his conversation.  The medicinal wash that Cas brewed up for him had so far kept infection from settling in, and though Dean was afraid to say it aloud, he had faith that Garth was gonna make it through this. 

            A lot of the men were bruised and battered and disheartened by the fire and their mad rush to escape the hell that the forest had become.  Most of them had only what they’d been able to haul on their backs, and some had even less than that now.  Benny had dropped his meager pack because he’d seen Garth go down, and he’d been the one to haul Garth blindly through the smoke and the fire.  Dean wasn’t sure how Cas had managed it, but he’d hauled Dean out along with their packs.  Would Cas ever stop amazing him?

 

* * *

 

 

            Chuck had come around earlier in the day to take stock of their weapons and food supplies.  What they had left had been piled in the center of the camp, recorded, and then redistributed to each soldier.  Roman had bitched about losing his food stores (he’d had quite a bit in his bag) but Bobby had told him to suck it up and act like a man for a change.  Each soldier now had a meager ration of hard tack, beef jerky, and some dried beans.  Chuck had glanced at them all with nervous, woeful eyes, and told them to try to make it last.  But Dean knew what it really meant.

 

 

            Dean had been hungry before. 

            It was a long winter the year his father died.  And though Aunt Ellen had come to help them, she’d brought Jo with her; more mouths to feed, and with John sick for so long, and Dean just a boy, they hadn’t been able to get all of the crops in on time.  Some of them had withered in the fields, others scavenged by animals that Dean had tried chasing off with sticks, but it had been futile. 

            He remembered how skinny Aunt Ellen got that winter, and how Jo cried all the time, because all they had to feed her was thin gruel.  And Sammy, constantly whining because his belly hurt.  Dean had felt it, deep within him, twisting and clawing.  It was like some sort of monster lived within his belly, always gnawing at him.  He snuck Sammy his food when he could, and he tried to bear the pain in silence, because he knew he had to be a man.  And like his daddy always told him, a big part of being a man meant taking care of your family, no matter what. 

            They’d fallen on hard times since then, but no winter had ever been as bad as that one.  Part of Dean still carried that winter with him.  Sometimes he woke gasping, dreams of Aunt Ellen’s sunken and exhausted eyes, and Jo’s crying haunting his sleep. 

            Dean knew how to be hungry. 

 

* * *

 

 

            If one could say that the fire had a bright side, it was this: it had cleared huge sections of the forest, had burnt a swath through the trees that now worked as a buffer zone between the troops, neither of whom felt brave enough to cross that distance without adequate cover.  The Northern unit that had set the land aflame had been forced to run too, because despite their plans, fire was a wild thing that couldn’t be controlled by the wills of men.  And it had devoured everything in its path, indiscriminate.  Dean hoped to hell that it ate through their supplies and snatched some of their men as well.

            The fire finally withdrew just north of Peachtree Creek.  Dean couldn’t begin to fathom what had stopped it there, why it hadn’t continued to burn until all of Georgia was aflame.  Half of him had believed that it would continue all the way to the sea where it would clash with the cold salt water and drown.

            For whatever reason, though, it had stopped, and the surviving patch of green just south of the creek was where D Company rested now, trying to heal and collect the tatters of their determination. 

            Ash had been able to save their cannons.  Dean supposed he should thank the Lord for that, and for all of their lives, and indeed he did send up a quick, grudging prayer, but mostly he was just glad that they had some sort of firepower.  He found himself praying now for simple things: bread, and bullets. 

            Dean felt full of an impotent rage, one that he had no hope of ever extinguishing—it burnt through him, hot and destructive like the fire they’d barely managed to escape.  Deep down, Dean knew that the Union soldiers were not much different from them—they were mostly young boys, too, forced to fight a war that nobody really wanted.  They were far from their homes and their families, and at this point, they were probably pretty far from God too.  But Dean didn’t care anymore.  Sometimes he felt utterly without sympathy.  He looked around at the people he did care about, his friends and companions, and he saw the agony on Garth’s face, the distress in Cas’s eyes at not being able to do enough.  The shadows in the eyes of their thirteen year old drummer boy.  And Dean wanted blood on his hands. 

            Cas could worry about redemption if he wanted to.  And later, Dean might even worry about it, too.  But after everything that the Union soldiers had tried to take from him, after they’d tried to burn everything he loved, he didn’t care anymore.  He wanted them dead.  He wanted the war to end.  And he was willing to go to Hell if it meant accomplishing that.

 

* * *

 

 

            Three days after the fire, they started to encounter the refugees.

            The first was an old man who stumbled through the trees, a ragged pack on his back, leading the way for a little girl who tagged along at his heels, clutching her own bundle.  They were both dirty, and the little girl’s face was tear-streaked.  They shied from the soldiers until they realized they were Confederates.  The old man paused in his journey long enough to tell Benny that their little hamlet had been burnt to the ground in the wake of the soldiers evacuating.  Benny told them regretfully that they had no food to offer, but that they should head further south.

            After that, it was a slow trickle of dirty, sobbing people tramping through the trees in small groups, or alone.  They were almost like ghosts.  Pale, exhausted, some of them covered in a thin coat of gray ash.  Some of them carried what they could.  Others had nothing. 

            It broke Dean’s heart to see the dirty black faces of soot-covered children.  He knew that these were the lucky ones.  Likely, many people had not made it out before their houses and their towns were consumed with flame.

 

            Sometimes the refugees had slaves with them.  The first Dean saw was a large black man who was pushing a wheelbarrow with food and blankets inside while a thin, haggard looking white woman walked next to him and held the hand of a blonde little boy who couldn’t have been older than three.  Some of the men cast dark comments their way as they followed a game trail through the twisting underbrush of the forest.  Dean cast his eyes instead toward Cas, who was watching them with sadness in his eyes.  Dean knew that these people would have a harder time than most.  Likely, the slave would be punished by someone, regardless of having stayed with the family that owned him.  Or maybe somewhere down the road, someone would try to take him and sell him for their own benefit, and leave the woman and child completely defenseless.  Or maybe they’d all die of starvation before they got to someplace safer than this.

 

            Later that night, while on guard duty, Dean saw a black woman sneaking through the trees with a small child clinging to each hand.  He said nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

 

            On the fourth day, they were inundated.  Whole swarms of people came stomping through the woods, wailing their pain and grief.  It looked like something from a horror story, and Dean couldn’t for the life of him fathom where all of these people had come from.  He’d never seen so many before in his life.  Most of the soldiers watched their struggling march with fear and sadness in their eyes, too afraid to ask.  Not really wanting to know.

            Bobby flagged down an elderly gentleman who was riding atop a pale horse.  He was wearing the clothes of a rich man, though they too were darkened with soot.  “What’s happened?  Where are all of these people coming from?”  Bobby’s voice was strained, tight the effort of keeping himself calm in the face of this new catastrophe.

            The old man, face gaunt and eyes shadowed, looked down at Bobby from atop his horse and spoke, clear as a bell “Atlanta has fallen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, everyone, but I hope this chapter makes up for it! As always, reviews are like air for me, so please let me know what you think :)

 

 

_October, 1864_

 

            “The sons a bitches are tryin’ ta starve us out.”  Benny growled, marching down the ragged line so that he could look into the grim, tired faces of each and every man that belonged to D Company.  “But it ain’t gonna work.”  He stopped, hands folded behind his back, cap pulled down low over his eyes so that they were shadowed in the harsh mid-day sun.  The troops were dirty, aching, some of them shaking on their feet from weariness.  “It ain’t gonna work,” Benny continued, “’cause every single one a ya is a meaner, tougher bastard than the worst those Union boys could scrounge up.”  Benny began again, taking slow, deliberate steps that brought him within breathing distance of every man that stood assembled before him.  He paused in front of Andy, who was trembling with the effort of standing.  “Gallagher,” Benny barked, “are you hungry?”

            Andy swallowed thickly and raised his eyes to Benny’s.  “No, sir.”

            “Fitzgerald!  How ‘bout you?” 

            Garth flashed Benny a grin around his make-shift eye-patch.  “Lafitte, you know I ain’t!”

            “Winchester?!”

            It felt like there was a monster in Dean’s belly, trying to eat its way out of him.  He’d give anything for a piece of bread.  Dean narrowed his eyes.  “I’m good.”  He murmured.

            Benny spun on his heel to face Cas.  “How ‘bout you, Pussycat?  Well-fed, rich boy like you?  Ya hungry?”

            Cas jutted his chin and stood just a little bit straighter.  “I’ve had worse.”  He rumbled.  The words twisted something inside of Dean, because God, he knew that Cas actually meant it.

            Benny squared his shoulders.  “You see that, boys?  How the hell do they expect they can starve us, when ain’t a single one of ya is hungry?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Bobby took a gulp of his ale and peered across the table at the other officers.  The General had a stick up his ass the size of a sycamore, and he was dumb to boot.  But Bobby held his peace and let the man talk. 

            The army was scrambling and troops were being shuffled around to try to stave off the killing blow of the North.  Bobby could hear the death knell of the Confederacy a comin’ but like these stubborn bastards, he wasn’t ready to admit defeat either.  The General’s eyes were hard, resolute, but some of the other men just looked scared.  Bobby couldn’t say that he blamed them.

            “D Company has been chosen for a special assignment.”  The words drew Bobby from his reverie.

            “The assignment, sir?”

            “You’re to take up operations at Fort McAllister.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            It was a ragged march—they knew where they were headed, finally, and it was a straight shot to get there, but the men staggered on their feet with each step.  The land they left behind was a burnt-out ruin, a gift from the Union boys and the Angel of the North, who had sacked Atlanta and was now running rampant through Georgia, destroying everything in his path.  If Dean ever found himself in the same room as that son of a bitch, he thought he’d like to strangle the life out of him with his own bare hands.

            Dean didn’t know what was coming with their new assignment, but he had a bad feeling about it.  He found himself more often clasping that good-luck hoodoo necklace that Sammy had given him, and praying to any God that was listening that they make it through just a little bit longer.  Cas marched stoically next to Dean, his rifle balanced on his shoulder, eyes resolute despite the hunger that Dean knew was gnawing at him. 

            Dean had never been to a real fort before—he’d only ever seen makeshift barracks and the defense of towns and cities.  For McAllister was something outside of his experience, and it gave him chills to think that they’d be locked behind walls of brick and stone and mortar, butted up against the sea with no way to retreat.  Dean guessed it was true what Bobby had told them all: It wasn’t about retreat—it was about holding the line.  And hell, D Company was at least good at doing that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            They were less than two days’ march from the Fort now, and night was rolling in.  Dean and Cas both volunteered to take first shift of guard duty, which Bobby waved off with no comment, and the two of them wandered into the darkening woods.

            Dean shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and stared forward.  “I got a bad feeling about this, Cas.”

            Cas tilted his head and glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye, but the rhythm of his march never faltered.  “What sort of bad feeling?”

            Dean bit his lip and swallowed hard.  It wasn’t the kind of thing he liked to say out loud—it was a jinx, but Dean couldn’t force himself to keep quiet about it, either.  “A bad feeling about the Fort.  Like… we’re walking into a trap or something.”

            Cas was quiet for a moment, contemplating Dean’s words as they walked.  Finally, though, he shrugged.  “Maybe it is.  But those are the orders, Dean.”  Cas smirked and kicked a stone out of his way.  “Besides, when have you ever let bad odds stop you?”

            Dean couldn’t help the smile that spread across his lips.  “You’ve got a point there, Cas.”  They continued on in silence for a time, then, until they’d gone far enough from camp that Dean knew that there was no chance of them being seen or heard.  Dean cleared his throat.  “Cas, what if….”  Dean’s words died in his throat in the next instant: Cas turned and grabbed Dean roughly by the neck of his shirt and hauled him in, smashing their lips together in a savage, desperate kiss that Dean didn’t even try to fight.

            Dean moaned into it, his whole body and mind crying out in glee for the touch.  Dean grasped Cas by the arms and turned them.  He took two large steps and backed Cas into the rough, but solid trunk of an old oak tree.  Cas grunted at the impact but tipped his head back further to deepen their kiss.  Cas’s mouth tasted so damn good after so long, and Dean let his tongue explore.  Their mouths moved together expertly, like they’d been doing this for years—Cas’s lips fit to Dean’s like they belonged there, and Dean knew that _this_ is what home felt like.  Cas whined low in his throat when Dean’s tongue slid over the roof of his mouth and Dean grinned into the kiss, teasing a bit more before he pulled back. 

            He pressed a hard kiss to Cas’s lips before tearing himself away.  Cas twined his fingers in Dean’s hair and held his head close.  Dean obliged, trailing his lips over the scruff on Cas’s jaw to nip at the sharp edge of it.  Cas panted out a breath and moaned when Dean darted his tongue out to lick a stripe up the long, pale expanse of Cas’s throat.  Dean could taste the salt of Cas’s sweat, but he didn’t care—it was all Cas and he wanted more. 

            They pressed close against each other, but it wasn’t close enough.  It was _never_ close enough.  Dean shifted them until he could press between Cas’s legs.  Dean groaned when he felt Cas’s hardness pressing into his own and Dean could barely control himself—a fresh spike of arousal shot through him and he hiked one of Cas’s legs up over his hip, allowing them to press even closer.  A sinful mewling noise tore out of Cas’s throat and Dean hauled Cas’s other leg up as well, so that they could wrap around Dean’s waist.

            For a moment, Dean held Cas pinned to the tree, and it was bliss, but then he unbalanced and they both crashed to the ground, Cas’s back cushioned by the leaves and undergrowth that covered the forest floor.  Cas never let go of him.

            There were too many clothes between them, and it was too hot.  Dean ground his hips down into Cas’s and the other man let out another mewl.  Dean smothered the noise with his own mouth, and dipped his tongue into the soft heat of Cas’s mouth again.  _God,_ he tasted good.  Whatever else happened, Dean knew that he’d never taste anything better than Cas, would never feel anything better than his best friend wrapped around him, moaning into his ear.

            Cas dug his fingers into Dean’s back, scraping against the cloth, and Dean gasped, thrusting his hips into Cas’s again.  Cas huffed, fingers fumbling with Dean’s shirt until he was able to haul it off with Dean’s help, and then he tossed it aside.

            Dean pulled back just long enough to shove Cas’s shirt off of his shoulders, but Cas’s fingers had been quick, and he’d managed to twist the clasp of Dean’s pants open.  Without any kind of warning, Cas shoved his hand inside and wrapped it firmly around Dean.  Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head and he thrust into Cas’s tight fist, engulfed in the need to move, the pleasure of being touched in this way by the person he loved. 

            Cas grunted and thrust his own hips up into Dean’s, while the other man pressed down.  They rutted on the forest floor, kissing and gasping, grinding their hips together messily until they both came, Cas’s legs still twined tightly around Dean’s waist.

            When Dean came back down from his high, he dropped his face into the space between Cas’s neck and shoulder, and panted heavily.  Dean became aware of Cas’s fingers brushing his hair out of his eyes, then.  They were hot and sticky, covered in a mix of their own sweat and come, but Dean didn’t want to move, didn’t want to know what the world had in store for them next. 

           They were perfect, right here.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I blatantly exaggerated the impressiveness of Fort McAllister. The real thing wasn't dramatic enough for my purposes, so I drew inspiration from the designs of other Civil War era forts.

_November, 1864_

 

            Fort McAllister was a giant stone fortress, pushed up against the coast of the Atlantic Ocean north of Savannah.  The place was full to bursting with soldiers when they arrived, shoring up the outside defenses and scampering atop the walls, hauling supplies.  It was more than one simple structure—it was a mess of tall stone towers and thick stone walls, fitted with regular gunnery holes.  From a distance, the men could see a single, pristine Confederate flag flying from the central tower.

            As D Company filed through the raised portcullis, Castiel felt a shiver go through him.  He paused, mid-march and glanced up at the jagged teeth of the metal bars, and he felt dread.  It felt almost as though all of them were marching into the maw of a hungry beast.  The stone walls felt cold and unforgiving—there was no warmth here—and on the approach Castiel had felt the numbing whip of the winter gale blowing in from the sea.  The ragged jacket and shirt he wore had endured much, but they were no use against this sort of cold.  They offered no protection, and Castiel knew that he was dressed better than most of the other men, as well.  Castiel couldn’t say that it was a mistake, coming here—after all, it was orders, and where else would they go, anyway?  There _was_ no place left to go.  Maybe that’s why Fort McAllister felt so formidable—it was the place for the South’s final stand, perhaps.  The end.  It wasn’t meant to be reassuring.

            It felt strange to be within walls again.  It had been so long since they’d had more than trees and mountainsides as their fortifications.  Cassville had been the last.  Castiel still had nightmares about Cassville, sometimes, and so he tried not to think on it overly long.  He shivered again.  Castiel wondered if someday he might have nightmares about Fort McAllister, too.    

            Dean must have noticed that Castiel was no longer with him, because he suddenly stepped out of formation and fell back, waiting for Castiel to rejoin him in the march.  Castiel found his legs were stiff now, on the last push of the journey, almost as though they were protesting going any further.  When he was finally within speaking distance, Dean leant close and whispered “What was that all about?”

            Castiel fought back another shudder and shrugged.  “Nothing.”

           

 

 

            It was odd, after everything, to find enough bedrolls for all of the men to finally have some warmth to curl into while they slept, rather than huddling together on bare ground, as they had been doing since the fires began.  Castiel didn’t bother asking where the extra supplies came from—the dwindling numbers of the Confederate army were testament enough.  Once, it might have bothered Castiel that he was going to be sleeping in a dead man’s bedroll, but he’d moved beyond such trivialities now.  He thought back to the day he and Dean had mustered with Company D, remembered Chuck handing Dean the coat of a fallen soldier, remembered seeing the speck of blood on the hem.  Such things, Castiel had learned, were routine in wartime.  Honestly, all Castiel could feel was grateful that he had a bed to keep warm in.  Everything else fell away.

            It was obvious that some of the other soldiers were used to life within the fort, among so many others.  They dashed back and forth, laughing raucously as the sun went down and everyone began to huddle close to their cook fires.  They seemed to share jokes and food with one another, and enjoyed a general air of revelry.  D Company did not partake.

            Maybe they’d been in the wilderness so long, with only each other for company, or hell, maybe it _was_ because they’d been pulled, unwillingly from the backwaters of Georgia, and had little in common with the other men.  Either way, they kept to themselves, and their voices remained muted, more solemn that first night.

            They were grateful when they were given a sack of beans and a side of beef.  Benny took over then and set to making them all a hearty soup that would hopefully warm them and give back some of the sustenance that had been slowly leached from them on the barren march.  Some of the men near to them, strangers from the 9th Infantry, joined their voices and began to sing “Dixie.”

            Castiel stared mournfully into the flames around the cook pot and ran a hand down his face.  He mumbled “I hate that fucking song.”

 

 

 

 

            It was too much to say that they were happy, but they were closer to content with their bellies full of beans and slivers of beef.  Hell, it was more than they’d had to eat at any one time since probably _last_ winter when they’d been relatively cozy and safe in the encampment outside of Atlanta. 

            There was some sort of cheer among the men, though.  They’d managed to borrow a pack of cards from one of the other units, and now Benny, Garth, Ash, Andy, and Ben were playing a round of poker.  Chuck and Bobby were conversing about how to organize the new supplies, and Roman was sulking by himself.  Dean and Castiel pulled their bedrolls close to the fire and laid down next to each other while Dean set to writing a letter to his family, now that there was ink and paper available again.  Castiel leant close and watched over Dean’s shoulder as he wrote.  Dean’s body was warm against the chill of the late evening air, and even though they’d been marching non-stop, sweating and getting dirtier as they went, Castiel didn’t mind.  Underneath it all, he could still detect the unique smell that was _Dean_ and it filled him with a sense of calm.  The scent of Dean’s skin, and his hair, the warmth of his body, had the power to bring Castiel back to happier times, when they used to curl together in the grass in the field outside of Dean’s home and soak up the warm rays of the sun.  Those days were long past, but they had a different kind of closeness now, and Castiel wouldn’t change it for the world.  They’d fought hard, had endured several kinds of hell, to get to where they were.

            Dean started his letter with an apology, of course:

 

_Dear Sammy, Jo, and Ellen,_

_I’m sorry that it’s been so long since the last time I wrote.  We didn’t have any pen or ink until now, and this only because I begged a sheet off another soldier.  The most important thing I can say is that me and Cas are both still alive, and healthy.  I hope that you all are still doing well in Savannah.  God, we can’t wait until this war is over and we can come home to you._

_This war has already been too long, and we’ve all lost so much.  Everywhere we go, it’s loss.  I’ve seen terrible things.  We both have.  They’re the kinds of things that I know I won’t ever be able to forget, and I’ve done terrible things too.  I only hope that after this war is over, you all can forgive me for the things I’ve done._

_I can’t tell you where we’re at, or what we’re doing, but I’ll tell you this—it’s a damn sight better than where we have been.  The hardest part, lately, has been the food shortages that have been plaguing all of Georgia, and hell, probably all of the South.  I hope that in Savannah, being near the sea and all, you lot still have food.  I hope that you’re all taking good care of each other while I’m away.  I promise, someday—hopefully soon—we won’t have to wonder whether or not we’ll get another meal.  We won’t have to worry about whether we’ll freeze during the night._

_When this war is over, I swear I’ll do right by you._

_Stay brave.  Stay strong.  I hope that we will see you soon._

_We love you,_

_Dean & Cas_


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would beg forgiveness for what I'm about to do, except the real tragedy is that, with the exception of some details being changed, this actually happened.

_December, 1864_

            Bobby Singer was no fool.  He knew that it was never a good sign to be woken in the wee hours of the morning with a summons to a meeting with one of the Generals.  He tugged his coat tighter around himself as he exited his makeshift quarters—a lop-sided tent perched against one of the inner stone walls, to protect against the ungodly draft that plagued the camp.  Even then, it was cold as hell and hard to sleep, but it was better than what some of his men had, so Bobby wasn’t going to complain about it.  Even now, with them inside the walls of the Fort, and equipped with bedrolls, most of the men snuggled together like puppies while they slept.  It would have made Bobby laugh, except that it was a move made out of desperation and the strong will to survive.  So Bobby said nothing about that, either.

            The boy who’d been sent to summon him was a scrawny thing, probably no older than 15—certainly not a man yet, and Bobby cursed again the circumstances that brought boys into this war.  He thought of Ben, who was probably younger still, and it made him feel sick inside.  Bobby just wanted this God-damned war to be over and done with, one way or another.

            The General was ensconced within one of the tower rooms, and Bobby noticed with chagrin, though not surprise, that the man had a full, roaring fire to heat his room.  Bobby had never met this man before—no reason he should have.  Bobby was only a lowly Captain—the Captain of the Dishwater Company, of all things.  He didn’t make decisions—he took orders.  But he was proud to do it, proud to serve with the men he did.  They were a stubborn, brave, and hardy bunch, and it didn’t matter to Bobby where they were from or how they’d gotten to where they were.  What mattered to Bobby was that when they were needed, his men stepped up and got the job done, and they weren’t the type of men to tuck tail and run.  That meant a hell of a lot more to Bobby Singer than a man’s last name.

            The General was seated at his desk, head bent over a stack of papers, pen scribbling away.  He paused when Bobby entered his quarters, tipped his head, and murmured, “Captain.”  Bobby understood that he was meant to be patient, so he waited, at attention, in front of the man’s desk.  Bobby waited perhaps twenty minutes, in silence, while the General finished his letter.  There were a lot of things Bobby could have said about that, but he kept his peace.  He’d served in the army long enough to know that things like this were run of the mill.  When the General was finally done, he pushed the paper aside to dry and gazed neutrally at Bobby.  “Take a seat, Captain.”

            Bobby lowered himself to the stiff chair in front of the General’s desk and waited.

            The man folded his hands before him on the desk and regarded Bobby for a moment.  Then he cleared his throat and began, “I have received new orders, direct from General Lee.”  Bobby knew better than to comment, so he remained quiet.  “I’m sure that I don’t have to tell you, Captain, that we are losing this war.  It is mostly a matter of time, now, and strategy.  We still have a hand in dictating how we are going to end this war, and there are things that are still worth protecting.  Now, I’ve been informed that you and your men have firsthand knowledge of that damned bastard Gabriel, who likes to call himself the “Angel of the North.”” Bobby nodded, and thought that based on this man’s derision alone, he probably knew Gabriel from West Point.  “He’s been wreaking havoc in this great state, and he’s been burning every city, town, and village that he comes across.  He’s burned fields and set thousands of people to walk aimlessly, homeless and starving.  This son of a bitch needs to be stopped, before there is nothing left of Georgia.”  The General leaned back in his seat and took a deep drink of what was probably whiskey.  He bared his teeth in a slight grimace before he continued, “We received word that he is on his way here, and will be arriving within the space of a couple days at most.  General Lee has informed me that we have done our utmost to ensure that Gabriel believes this is where we are massing all of our forces for the final stand of Georgia.  In response, our scouts tell us that Gabriel is mustering all of his forces, and he is aiming them all here—he plans to try to crush this army at Fort McAllister.”  Suddenly, the General rose from his seat and filled another crystal tumbler with golden liquid and passed it across to Bobby, motioning for him to drink.  Bobby had to fight to keep his hand from trembling when he reached for the drink, and he didn’t feel any steadier after he’d taken a healthy gulp of it.  The General sat again.  “That, of course, is not going to happen.”

            Bobby shifted in his seat.  “Sir?”

            The General cast his eyes away, then, toward the fire.  “General Lee has ordered that I take the bulk of the troops and lead them south, the long way toward Savannah.  I hope you understand that the city of Savannah and the ports it provides the Confederacy with, are our highest priority right now.  If this army falls, it will fall outside the walls of Savannah, guarding the last refuge of our Georgian honor.  Do you understand, Captain?”

            Bobby frowned and downed the rest of the alcohol.  “I don’t understand what this has to do with myself and my troops, sir.  When you give the order, we will march.”

            The General shook his head, and there was no humor in his face when he fixed his eyes on Bobby once more.  “Gabriel still needs a reason to come here.  He can’t be allowed to learn that the majority of this army has headed south.  We need him to waste his time, his bullets, and his men _here_ while we build the best defenses we can for Savannah.”

            Bobby’s heart stuttered in his chest.  “What are you saying, sir?”

            The General clenched his jaw.  “You and your boys have done an admirable job holding off Gabriel and his men before.  We need you to do it again, Captain.  We need your Company to hold this fort while we do what we can to save the last of Georgia.”  The man’s eyes softened minutely.  “Can you do that, Captain?”

            Bobby felt like he was going to be sick, but he held the impulse back.  He clenched his teeth and narrowed his eyes.  He straightened in his seat.   His voice was gruff when he answered: “Yes sir, General, sir.  We will hold this fort, or die trying.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

            It felt like a death blow to hear the words.  Bobby gathered D Company and was left alone to deliver the news.  The worst part, Dean thought, was that none of the men protested the decision.  What was there to say, really?  They all knew what it meant, but Roman stepped forward and said the words, anyhow.  “This is a suicide mission, isn’t it, Captain?”

            Bobby struggled to maintain his composure as he looked upon Roman’s pale face.  “Most likely.”

            Benny stepped forward then, though, strong, despite the feeling that was weighing them all down.  “It don’t matter, though.  We all have a job to do, and we’ll damn well see it done.”  Benny turned to gaze at all of the men who huddled close together in the muddy yard of the fort.  “I say let those Northern sons of bitches take their best shot, and we’ll give ‘em hell back.”

            Dean stepped forward.  “Is it just us, then?  We the sacrificial lamb this time around?”

            Bobby frowned and ran a hand over his cap.  “They’re leaving a few boys from another unit—there ain’t many of ‘em left, anyway.”  Then Bobby focused on Ben.  “Ben—you’ll be heading out with the rest of ‘em, though.  So make sure your things are packed.”

            Ben bristled and fisted his hands at his sides.  “Why am I being sent away?!”  He demanded, voice cracking awkwardly.

            Bobby frowned.  “You’re not a combatant, and it would be a damn waste to keep you here with us.  Take your chance, boy, and get the hell out of here while you can.”

            Ben stalked forward, face angry and determined.  “No, Captain.  And I’m not a boy.  I’ve been through hell and back with this Company.  I’ll be damned if I let you push me out, now.”

            Bobby growled, “This is insubordination, private.”

            Ben gritted his teeth together.  “Then put me in the stocks, Captain.  But I ain’t leaving this fort so long as the rest of you stay here.”

            Dean was torn between admiration for Ben and his determination to stay with his friends, and an urge to smack the boy—didn’t he understand?!  They weren’t coming out of this, and Ben was just a kid—he still had a chance in this life!

            The argument was interrupted when the Lieutenant came to see what the ruckus was about.  He flicked an uncaring glance over Ben—dirty, scruffy, stubborn Ben—and said “The drummer boy wants to stay?  Let him stay… _for morale_.”  He cast a dark look at Bobby and then walked away, as though he hadn’t said anything at all.

            Bobby glared at Ben.  “You just signed your own death warrant, boy.”  He growled.

            Ben stuck out his chin.  “We’ll see soon enough, Captain.  Give me a gun and I’ll do more than drum for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Dean watched, silent, as the other soldiers packed their things, formed up, and filed out the rear gates of the fort.  Dean leaned against the inside wall near to one of the towers, and hummed to himself softly.  He wasn’t surprised when Cas found him a short while later, his dark head bowed, hands in his pockets.

            They were silent for a long time, finding some sort of comfort in simply standing next to one another, shoulder to shoulder.  The yard that had seemed so loud and cramped before now felt barren and deserted, and suddenly far too big.  The army was leaving thirty men to hold the fort against an approaching force of hundreds…maybe thousands. 

            For some, maybe it was too much to think about, too difficult to face the reality of what they were going to have to do.  But Dean found himself mulling over the details with a sort of resigned detachment.  Part of him had always known, from the moment he’d been forced to sign his name in the post office in Forsyth, that it would come down to this.  With that signature, Dean had pledged to give his all to safeguard the Confederacy, the state of Georgia, and his family.  And Dean Winchester was a man of his word.  He was going to do just that.  It was no use thinking of how it wasn’t fair, or how he hadn’t gotten to do, or say all of the things he wanted.  This was the hand he’d been dealt, and Dean was gonna play it to the best of his abilities.

            Dean blew a heavy breath from between his lips when the last of the soldiers had left the yard.  “I think my only regret is that I wasn’t able to write a last letter to Sammy, and Ellen and Jo… explaining why we have to do what we’re going to do….”  Dean’s voice hitched and he forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath.  “Explaining to them why….”  Dean tipped his head back.  The sky was an ominous, steel gray above them.  “Telling them to look after each other.  And that I… we… love them.”

            Cas’s hand was warm and heavy on Dean’s shoulder—his long, delicate fingers dug into the fabric and flesh, and drew Dean’s attention.  He turned his eyes to meet Cas’s wide, fierce blue ones.  They were filled with a sort of fire that Dean had rarely seen, and it sent a thrill through his blood.  Cas’s voice was deep, resolute when he said “Dean—I promised Sam that I’d bring you and me both back home to him.  I intend to keep that promise.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, this is the chapter we've all been dreading! Warning for minor character deaths, some of which will probably make you super sad.

 

 

_December, 1864_

 

            Bobby shoved his hands deep in his pockets and spit his mouthful of tobacco over the side of the Fort’s stone outer wall.  He cast his sight out as far as it would go—over the rolling hills and the scattered copses of trees, to the wide open expanse of land that led up to the walls his men were huddled behind.  He didn’t bother to shift his gaze when he asked “How many cannons did they leave us?”

            Ash sidled up next to him, and, voice weary, said “Three, Captain.”

            Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head.  “God damn it.”

            Ash reached out and gripped Bobby’s shoulder in solidarity.  “I know, Captain.  I’m right there with ya.  It was a cowardly thing they did, but we’ll make do.  We always have.”

            Bobby nodded and held back the words that pressed to spill from his lips, words like _You boys didn’t deserve this_ and _It’s been an honor serving with you_.  They weren’t done yet, and Bobby sure as hell wasn’t gonna say it.  He’d never call defeat, not so long as a single one of his men still stood on their own two feet.  Each of his men had a rifle, and some of them were packing pistols as well.  They still had most of their bayonets and earlier, Bobby had sent others to gather large rocks that could be thrown down upon approaching soldiers from the tops of the stone walls. 

            They were going to lose.  That was a surety.  But they were going to take as many of those Yankee sons of bitches as they could with them, screaming, all the way to the darkest depths of hell, where they all surely had seats waiting just for them.

            They’d do what they could.  That’s all he could ask of his men now.  Maybe it would be enough.  Maybe Savannah wouldn’t fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The sky was cold and clear and the stars were glistening against the black velvet of the sky.  With each exhale, Dean could see his breath.  He was too wound up to sleep, so he lay with his arms folded behind his head, snuggled in his bedroll.  Next to him, Cas did the same.

            The other men were spread out through the Fort, some sleeping, some passing the time in whatever way they could without losing their minds to the boredom and the slow wave of fear that was ever-approaching, waiting to drown them all.  There were no officers here to worry about anymore, except Bobby, so the men went where they wanted to, and many of them found warm places to sleep inside, now that the others had vacated.  This place was going to be their tomb.  It was theirs now.  No man was gonna tell them that they couldn’t find a warm place to sleep before they died.

            Cas’s breath was deep and steady next to him, but Dean knew that he wasn’t asleep.  There was no way either of them was gonna sleep on a night like this.  They were quiet for a long time, hours, just laying together in the cold, empty yard, watching the stars.  Finally, though, Dean felt choked by emotion and he couldn’t hold it in anymore.  He rolled onto his side and reached down in the dark for Cas’s hand. 

            Cas’s hand was cold, but Dean threaded their fingers together anyway.  Cas turned his head toward Dean and blinked calmly at him.  Dean sighed, and, no longer caring for consequences that held no meaning, since they had no future, he raised Cas’s hand and brushed his lips over the backs of the knuckles.  Cas sucked in a shocked breath and clutched Dean’s hand harder.  Dean smiled ruefully against Cas’s skin and murmured, “You’re a dummy, Cas, you know that?  You never should have put your name down in Forsyth.  I shouldn’t have let you.  I should have dragged you out of that post office the moment I saw you standing there.”

            Cas chuckled softly.  “You’re the dummy, then, Dean Winchester.  Don’t you know by now that there was nothing you could do to keep me from coming with you?”

            Dean laughed, and there were tears in the sound.  “God, I love you, you dumb, stubborn son of a bitch.  I love you.  And I wish that you were safe at home, or that you were with Sammy and Ellen and Jo.  Hell, I’d even rather you were with that bitch Bela Talbot than laying here on the cold, hard ground next to me.”  Dean took a deep breath and whispered “I never wanted this for you, Cas.”  His breath hitched.  “God, all I ever wanted was to keep you safe, you know?”

            Cas growled, then, and surprised Dean when he rolled on top of him, witnesses be damned.  Dean felt his heart leap when Cas’s weight pressed into him and pinned him to the ground.  “You think I didn’t want those things for you, Dean?  Do you think it was easy for me to hear that the soldiers had come and taken you away?  Do you really think that I could have stayed behind and let you leave without me?”  Cas closed his eyes and tilted forward, pressed his warm, soft lips against Dean’s forehead.  His breath shook, and Dean knew that he was also holding back tears.  “I’ve loved you since we were children, Dean.  You couldn’t get away from me if you tried.  I told you before, and I meant it—I will fight for you ‘til the last, Dean Winchester.  There’s no quitting for me.”

            Dean didn’t bother holding back the sob then.  It ripped out of his chest, and he let it—he wasn’t ashamed.  He cradled Cas’s face in his palms and kissed him, gently, their lips barely brushing, exchanging shaky breaths that steamed between them in the frosty air.  Neither of them felt the need to say aloud that they didn’t care if anyone saw them now.  It wouldn’t make a difference.  The certainty of death was liberating like that, Dean supposed.  Hell, he wondered if any of the other D Company boys would even be surprised to find them in such a position, clutching to each other and trading soft touches in the dark.  Honestly, he didn’t care.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            They didn’t need the scouts to tell them that the Angel of the North was coming.  The rumble and thud of thousands of approaching soldiers was enough to alert them.  They felt them from miles away, but there was nothing for D Company to do but wait.  They’d already done what they could—what little they could.  Now it was just a matter of standing their ground and waiting for the storm to break.

            In the yard, Ben clutched a rifle in his hands and looked down the sights to test it out.  Benny sidled up beside him and cleared his throat so as not to startle the boy.  “You know how to use that thing, right?”

            Ben leaned the rifle against his shoulder and glared up at Benny.  “’Course I do.  You think I’da been with the army this long without picking these things up?”

            Benny shrugged.  “Just makin’ sure.  We’re gonna need every man we got on that wall in a short while.  I wanna know that when you pull that trigger, you’re gonna snuff some man’s lights out.”

            Ben grimaced and tightened his grasp on his weapon.  “I’m sure gonna try, you can count on that.”

            Benny nodded and turned his eyes away, up to the battlements where Ash, Andy, and Bobby were conversing.  “You’re a good kid, sticking with us like you did.  Stupid, but good.”

            Ben frowned but gave an answering nod anyhow.  “I told y’all before, I ain’t a kid.  Not anymore.  And ‘sides, where else was I gonna go?  This Company is all the family I got.”

            Benny glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye but Ben caught the movement and glanced back.  “Don’t go feeling sorry for me, either.  This is how life is.  I know that.  Least this way, maybe I can do something good before I go.”

            Benny clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed.  He allowed a smile to grace his lips.  “I have full faith that you will.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The Angel of the North brought with him 4,000 men, each bearing rifles and bayonets.  They all looked weary and hungry too, but not so bad as the Confederate soldiers, and anyhow, it didn’t stop them from keeping in tight battle formations.  There were blocks of them, rows upon rows, stacked deep across the plain that led up to the Fort.  Some of them bore pikes that they drove into the ground, just in case the defenders of Fort McAllister tried to run through them with a cavalry unit, which, of course, they did not have.

            They brought cannons with them—a whole row of them that they positioned in the front to blow holes in the outer wall of the Fort and bring it crumbling down for the advance.  They had a Gatling gun, too, a devilish weapon that Dean had heard rumors of but hadn’t believed because it was simply too terrible to comprehend.  A gun that could shoot hundreds of rounds without needing to stop to reload.  He’d heard how it had sprayed fire through ranks of Confederate boys, dropping them like flies and flooding the fields with Southern blood.  It was at their doorstep, now, waiting for _them._

            The worst thing, though, was the stillness, and the quiet.  They could see Gabriel on a bay horse midway among his men, but he hadn’t given a rousing speech, and none of the men were speaking either.  It was as though they were so uniform in their understanding of the plan that they had no need to confer any more. 

             It was terrifying.

            Ash aimed one of the cannons at the spot where Gabriel’s horse shifted back and forth on the field.  Now he simply waited for the order to fire.  It seemed, though, like no one wanted to be the first to take a shot.

            Among the gathered Northern faces were those of a Colored Unit.  Dean had heard about those, too.  Had heard that black men could and did join the Union Army in order to try to crush the South and free their enslaved brethren.  He even heard that some of the freed slaves in states already conquered by the Yankees had signed up to fight as well. 

            There was murmuring among some of the men in D Company when they saw that one of the Colored Units was going to be leading the attack.  For some of the men, this was a worse insult than their impending defeat and death.  Dean couldn’t bring himself to care either way.  It didn’t matter to him what color skin a man had, when he was pointing a gun at Dean’s head.  At Cas’s.  And anyway, knowing what he did about the state of slavery in the Confederacy, Dean figured they had a lot to be furious over.  More right than anyone else, probably.  But still, Dean would do his damnedest to take out as many soldiers as he could, regardless.

            It felt like everyone was holding their breath, as the minutes ticked by.  Dean and Cas were perched among the crenellations at the top of the fort, their sights fixed on the men gathered below.  Cas was in that special frame of mind he got whenever there was a gun in his hand, and he was calm once more.  Dean had to fight to keep his hands from quivering. 

            They’d seen terrible things, had faced impossible odds during their time in this war, but this was the worst.  Dean could not look out upon those 4,000 faces without feeling the breath of Death down the back of his neck. 

 

 

 

 

            It was like the unleashing of a mighty hurricane when Gabriel finally gave the signal to fire.  All at once, the cannons were lit and a moment later, the giant lead balls were smashing into the stone walls of the Fort, shaking it on its foundations, and knocking most of the men down.  They struggled back to their positions quickly, though, and took aim.  In the formations below, some of the men screamed and fell, with a bullet bursting red through their bodies. 

            Gabriel kept his men back, so Bobby’s stones were useless, and so were their bayonets—those were for the last moment, right before death swallowed them all whole.

            The cannons fired again, rattling the teeth in Dean’s head.  Chunks of stone flew through the air and Dean shouted aloud, though no one heard his scream, when one of the flying pieces of shrapnel struck Andy in the neck and his friend fell from the wall to land in the yard with a sickening thump.  Dean clenched his eyes shut and took a deep breath to steady himself before he turned back to the wall, leaned around the stone outcropping, and took another shot.  His heart raced in his chest, telling him that it might not be too late, Andy might still be alive.  If only Dean could get to him, he might be able to save him. 

            It took all of Dean’s strength to keep him from running to his friend.  It was already too late.  And even if it wasn’t, it would be soon.  The rest of them couldn’t afford to have Dean leave his post.  So he gritted his teeth against the knowledge that one of his good friends was dying below, and he reloaded his weapon and took another shot. 

            The Angel of the North rained volley after volley upon them, until the walls began to crack and crumble.  One portion of the wall looked as if it might collapse and the men standing guard atop it ran for their lives, scaling down the wall as fast as they could.  They were halfway down the stairs when another round of cannon fire punched a hole through the wall and showered them with giant chunks of rock and mortar, and some of the men were crushed instantly.  Others caught pieces of stone in their soft bodies and fell, screaming. 

            Dean glanced away from his target only for a moment, just to make sure that Cas was still next to him, was still breathing, and that’s when he saw Ash shove Bobby tumbling off of the wall right before cannon fire exploded over the top. 

            Dean saw Ash die, and he screamed against the pain and the horror of it.  The echo of the cannon fire was nothing to his own deafening screams.  He pulled the pistol from his back and took another shot.  A man dropped to his knees below, blood dribbling from his mouth.  It wasn’t enough. 

            Beside Dean, Cas was systematically loading, shooting, and reloading, but now Dean could see that even he was shaking.  This was the end.  The walls were coming down. 

            The whole structure began to rumble and Dean reached out, grasped Cas by the arm, and yanked him to his feet.  “We gotta get down!”  He screamed, but he wasn’t sure if Cas could even hear him through the cacophony.

            The wall blew in when they were halfway down the stairs and it knocked them off their feet, but it didn’t crush them.  Still, a moment later, the steady rat-tat-tat of the Gatling started up and it was wheeled forward to the entrance.  Dean’s heart froze in his throat, and he jerked his gaze toward the center of the yard, wild-eyed, to see if any of his comrades were even still standing.  Dean watched Ben—brave, foolish Ben—put his rifle to his shoulder once more and take a shot.  A moment later, the deadly spray of bullets was turned in his direction and ate up the earth toward the boy.  The world seemed to slow, then, and Dean watched, frozen, horrified, as Benny charged from the other direction and knocked Ben to the ground, throwing his own body over the boy.  The scream died in Dean’s throat when he saw the spurts of blood shoot from Benny’s body. 

            Beside Dean, Cas leapt to his feet, roaring, bayonet screwed into the end of his rifle.  He advanced on the breech in the wall, murder in his eyes.  Dean scrambled to his feet to follow, and he realized that he too was screaming, and that tears were streaming from his eyes. 

            The enemy poured through the wall in droves before Dean and Cas could reach it.  Still, it didn’t stop Cas from leaping forward and skewering one of the soldiers with the deadly bayonet blade.  Cas ripped it from the man’s body and screamed again, though his voice was drowned out still by the continuing cannon blasts and gunfire.  Dean strode after Cas, desperate to reach him, and he was almost there, when he felt a leaden ball rip through his shoulder.  Dean stumbled and gasped, and Cas must have noticed out of the corner of his eye, because he stopped his rampage and glanced back at Dean, face panicked.  Dean clapped a hand over the wound and blood pulsed around his fingers.  Even amid the rain of bullets, Cas returned to Dean’s side, dodging shots like they were nothing. 

            They might have died that way, huddled together amidst the bodies of their fallen comrades, but a moment later, the Angel of the North himself strode through the gaping hole in the outer wall, cast his gaze around at the utter destruction he and his men had wrought, and he called in a clear, commanding voice “Cease fire!  Cease fire!  Drop your weapons.  The Fort is ours!”  Dean’s fingers had already gone numb and his rifle had slipped from his hand.  It lay in a pool of someone’s blood at Dean’s feet.  Maybe his own. 

            Beside him, Cas turned rage-filled, mutinous eyes on Gabriel, clutched Dean tightly in his arms, and dropped his own weapon.

            The siege of Fort McAllister took all of fifteen minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter! Even if it's just to sob or rage at me :)


	40. Chapter 40

 

 

_December, 1864_

 

 

            The world was a roaring blur of blood and bullets and rage that pulsed, louder, with each protracted beat of his murderous heart.  The enemy were swarming in around them, rifles pointed at those few who hadn’t been blown to pieces by the cannon fire or mowed down by the Gatling gun.  Castiel was drenched in blood and sweat and Dean was heavy in his arms, the last precious thing in this Hell, and Castiel would be damned if he’d let these sons of bitches get their hands on him. 

            His blood pulsed, deafening, in his ears, but somehow he managed to hear the order for surrender.  It was the last thing that Castiel wanted to do—drop his weapon—but somehow through the fog of rage and pain he realized that they’d already lost.  The Fort was over-run and the Angel of the North was standing, alive and well, in front of him.  There was a moment—it flickered briefly through Castiel’s mind—when he wondered whether it would make any difference if Castiel took one last shot, if he blew Gabriel’s head off.  The Yankees would kill him, surely.  They’d probably kill Dean, too.

            Castiel’s rifle slipped through his fingers and clattered on the hard-packed earth at his feet, covered in blood and rubble. 

            That’s when Castiel knew it was over.

 

 

            Everything was screaming, then.  It rang in Castiel’s ears and rattled his bones, and it took him a long time to realize that the noise was coming from his own throat—shouts of rage and fear were being _ripped_ from his body, just as Dean was being torn from his arms.  Castiel fought against the grasping hands and the orders to “ _Stand down,”_ and he cursed aloud, threatened to send them all to Hell.

            It took three of them to subdue him, and later, Castiel would wonder why they hadn’t just put a bullet through his skull.  But at the moment, all he could think was that they were taking Dean away from him, that Dean _wasn’t safe_ with them.  So he fought until eventually, one of the Union soldiers had had enough of him and finally knocked him unconscious with a swift blow to the back of his head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Screams woke Castiel.  When he blinked his eyes open, his head spun and his stomach lurched.  He barely managed to turn over before he heaved into a pile of straw, but his stomach was empty and nothing came up, except acid that burned the back of his throat.

            He pushed himself to his hands and knees and managed to get a look around.  They were in one of the inner cells, the gate pulled shut so that Castiel could see out into the yard, but could not leave.  His eyes skated over the splashes of blood and gore that marred the yard, stuttering on the bodies of his fallen comrades.  On the other side of the yard, a group of people were huddled, barking orders at one another, while a man lay pinned to the ground.  His shrieks are what had woken Castiel—it sounded as though the man’s vocal cords were tearing—and it was the most inhuman sound Castiel had ever heard.  And now he knew why.  They were sawing the man’s leg off.  Castiel turned abruptly from the sight, his stomach roiling again.  A moment later, the man’s screams stopped.

            Movement behind him finally drew Castiel’s attention and he realized he wasn’t alone in the cell.  His heart stuttered when he realized that Dean was there, unconscious, but propped against Ben.  The boy looked weary and terrified, but still he was pressing his hand firmly against Dean’s shoulder in an effort to stem the spill of blood.  “You’re awake,” Ben croaked.  Droplets of blood and gore were still splattered across his face, and his clothes were drenched in it—Castiel remembered that Benny had thrown himself over the boy to shield him from the Gatling gun.  “Thought you might be done for,” Ben continued, “They hit you pretty hard.”

            Castiel couldn’t think of what to say to that, so he kept his peace and crawled over to them.  Dean was pale, and limp, but he was alive, and Castiel allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief for that.  “How long was I out?”  Castiel’s throat hurt from the screaming, and his voice was even more gravelly than usual.

            Ben shrugged.  “Dunno.  I was sort of out of it myself for a while.”

            Castiel nodded absently.  “Thank you,” Castiel said, motioning toward Ben’s hands on Dean’s shoulder.  “But I need to take a look.”

            Ben removed his hands and scooted away a few inches so Castiel could move closer.  “He’s been bleeding pretty bad.”  Ben whispered.  And yeah, Dean’s shirt was soaked in blood.  Castiel’s fingers were shaking, from fear, maybe exhaustion, as he unbuttoned Dean’s shirt and maneuvered the material off of his shoulders.  Even unconscious, Dean groaned when Castiel pulled the cloth away, because it had gotten stuck to the blood congealing around his wound.  Castiel’s fingers were gentle as he tipped Dean forward, and Castiel bowed his head, sending up a quick prayer of thanks, when he found the exit wound on the back of Dean’s shoulder.  The wound was bloody, torn, and Dean had lost a lot of blood, but at least the bullet wasn’t stuck in his body. 

            “I need supplies.”  Castiel said, glancing around at the bare cell, as though he might find something there. 

            Ben shrugged at him and snorted.  “All we got is the clothes on our backs, man.  They took the rest.” 

            “Then I’ll ask for some,” Castiel said as he rose to his feet.  “Keep pressure on the wound.”

            “They ain’t gonna help you.”  Ben said, voice weary.  “They just got done killing us, Cas.”  Castiel ignored Ben’s words and made his way to the bars.  A group still gathered around the fallen man, and Castiel was almost thankful that he couldn’t see what they were doing now.  He couldn’t bear the sight of the severed leg, or worse, the saw still working.  All of those people were focused, heads bowed, but there were others in the yard who seemed to be trying to clear the rubble, and gather the bodies of the fallen.  Still others appeared to be standing guard, rifles perched on their shoulders, caps pulled down low.

            Castiel stood grasping the bars of his new prison cell warily, watching for a moment.  No one paid him any attention.  “Hey!”  Castiel called.  A couple soldiers glanced at him, but didn’t respond.  “Please…we need help!  One of ours is wounded.”  One of the soldiers snorted and turned his back on Castiel.  Others pretended as though they hadn’t heard, indifferent to his pleas.  “Please!  I’m begging you!  He’ll die if I don’t help him!” 

            It was a red-headed soldier, youngish in looks, with a pale face and lean build, who finally answered Castiel’s call.  The boy glanced around at the other unaffected soldiers, sighed wearily, and then trudged toward Castiel.  “What do you want?”  The soldier called before he reached the cell bars.

            “Please,” Castiel said, as the boy drew near.  “My friend was shot, and he’s bleeding out.  I need supplies.” 

            The boy’s green eyes were wary and he maintained a distance from the bars, perhaps afraid that Castiel would reach out for him.  He bit his lip.  “Our medic is busy trying to save another of yours right now.  You’ll have to wait.”

            “No!”  Castiel growled, slamming his hands against the bars.  The soldier startled and took a step back.  Castiel heaved out a breath and fought to get control over himself again.  He couldn’t afford to make another enemy right now.  “I’m sorry,” He said, once he’d regained some calm.  “He’s my best friend, and he’s dying.”  The soldier nodded, obviously sympathetic to the explanation.  “I don’t need a medic,” Castiel explained.  “I know how to treat a bullet wound.  I just need some supplies.”

            “Alright.”  The soldier agreed.  “What do you need?”

 

            The minutes ticked by excruciatingly slow, and Castiel kept looking back at Dean every few seconds, just to reassure himself that his friend was still breathing.  When the soldier finally returned with the clean bandages and pail of freshly boiled water, Castiel bowed his head in relief.  The soldier was wary when he handed the supplies through the bars, but he did so, and for that, Castiel was thankful.  “Thank you.”  Castiel murmured as he pulled the supplies into the cell.  The soldier offered him a simple nod then stepped away from the bars to watch.

 

           Dean remained unconscious the whole while Castiel toiled, but Ben watched, rapt, as Castiel went through the steps needed to save Dean’s life.  It was a lot of work to clean the wound, because the blood had congealed in the wound and started to crust on the bullet’s point of entry, while the back of Dean’s shoulder was jagged and torn.  More than once, Castiel thought he might be ill, but he managed to push through his own feelings, and keep his hands steady.  The situation was not ideal, of course—if Castiel were a free man, he could have found medicinal plants to help with the healing, and to guard against infection, but right now all he could do was clean and bandage the wound tightly, and pray that Dean pulled through.  After the bandages were secured, Castiel heaved a sigh and pressed his forehead to Dean’s for a long moment, savoring the warmth of Dean’s skin and the sound of each shallow, but blessed breath.

           When Castiel finally pulled away from Dean, wiping his hands on his own ruined trousers, he found the red-haired soldier still watching him through the bars.  Castiel cleared his throat and got as close as he could, lowering his voice so that only the other soldier could hear him.  “Thank you,” he said again.  “You may have saved his life, and for that, I am forever in your debt.”  Castiel cocked his head, studying the young man.  “What is your name?”

           The soldier swallowed thickly, throat bobbing, and said “I’m Charlie.”

           Castiel nodded and, slowly, he reached a hand through the bars, palm up, open.  “I’m Castiel.”  Charlie regarded his hand for a long moment, before he flicked nervous green eyes up to Castiel’s.  Warily, the young man reached forward and took Castiel’s hand into his own smaller, more delicate one, just for a moment, just long enough to shake, before he pulled back, skittish.  “Thank you.”  Castiel said a final time, conveying as much sincerity as he could, before he pulled back, and returned to Dean’s side.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

           It was a long night, perhaps one of the longest of Castiel’s life.  Despite how weary he was, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep.  He was irrationally afraid that if he closed his eyes, somehow he might lose his connection to Dean, and Dean might pass away in the night.  So he tucked Dean close on one side, Ben on the other, and Castiel kept watch the whole night through.

           Just before dawn, in the muted light of distant torches, Dean blinked his eyes open.  “Cas?”  He mumbled, hoarse from screaming and dehydration.

          “I’m here, Dean.”  Castiel murmured, pulling Dean closer, so that he could lay his cheek against the mess of Dean’s hair.

          “Are we alive?”

         “We’re alive.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

              Castiel was surprised when Gabriel appeared before the bars of their cell and requested to speak with them.  Part of Castiel wanted to stretch his fingers through the bars and wrap them around the other man’s throat, squeeze until the life drained out of him.  Gabriel must have known, or suspected as much, because he stood just out of Castiel’s reach. 

              Dean could stand, though he was still weak, so he leaned against the bars, perched between Castiel and Ben. 

              Now that he was close, Castiel could see that Gabriel was a short man, relatively young, with almost golden eyes, but he held himself like a soldier, and his face was serious when he addressed the three of them.  “The bulk of my men and I will be leaving shortly, but I wanted to speak with you before I go.”  Castiel tipped his head, just slightly, to indicate the man should proceed.  “I won’t apologize for what I or my men have done.  This is a war.”  His golden eyes narrowed and he folded his hands behind his back.  “However, I will say that when we laid siege to this fort, we did so under the impression that there were hundreds, if not thousands of men holding it.  We did not expect to find that there were less than fifty of you to our four thousand, or that you had determined to hold this fort with three cannons.”  Gabriel glanced at all three of them before he settled his eyes back on Castiel.  “In all honesty, your General played a sneaky hand…brilliant, but sneaky, and in the end, it won’t matter.  We’ve already won this war, it’s just a matter of tying up loose ends now.”  Gabriel frowned, just a slight downturn of his lips.  “Still, too often men like him bark an order that sentences thousands of men to die, and I hope that someday he will burn in Hell for this order.  It isn’t easy for me to say this—it’s not really my style—but I respect what you lot did.  You knew trying to hold this fort was a suicide mission, and you took it on anyway, and you all fought valiantly.  I would like to believe that in a similar situation, my own men and myself would be just as brave.”  Gabriel glanced to the side for a moment, at two of his soldiers, before he met Castiel’s eyes again.  “That being said, I’ve come to offer terms.”

             “What terms?”  Dean drawled, voice still weak.

             Gabriel shifted his attention to Dean for a moment, considering.  “Take the Oath of Allegiance to the United States and promise never to take up arms against federal troops or agents again.”

             “And in return?”  Castiel asked, eyes narrowing.

             “In return, I will allow you and yours to bury your fallen with dignity, and I will instruct my soldiers that you have free reign of the fort, so long as you do not attempt to deceive or evade the guards that I will leave posted here.”  Gabriel flicked his gaze over Dean’s wound, then to Ben’s gaunt face.  “I will make sure that you are given food and clean water.  You will assist my soldiers in whatever tasks they require.”  Gabriel bit at the inside of his cheek for a moment, before he finished, “Believe me when I say this is the best deal you are ever going to receive.”

 

 

 

             They took the Oath.  All of them did, except for Roman and a handful of soldiers that Castiel didn’t know.  They would have been fools not to.  The war was all but lost—they’d known that for a long time.  And they’d heard horror stories of prisoner of war camps, including Georgia’s own Andersonville, where soldiers died by the dozen every single day, from the agony of gangrene, and sickness, and starvation.

 

 

             Castiel learned, eventually, that Chuck, Garth, and Bobby also survived.  Castiel flinched when he learned that the man he’d witnessed having his leg amputated the day of the siege had been Bobby.  His leg had been crushed in the explosion, but the medic, under Gabriel’s direction, had gotten to him in time to save his life.  Though his leg was gone, they were optimistic that Bobby would pull through.  Castiel believed it—Bobby was a tough son of a bitch.

             They were heart-sore and weary, and some of them were resentful, but the able-bodied Confederates buried their own dead.  At one time, Castiel might have shed tears for them, his friends and comrades, but as he laid them in the ground, he couldn’t find it in him to do so.  He had no tears left.

 

 

 

             Gabriel left Fort McAllister later that very day, taking with him the bulk of his men, however he did leave two units to man the Fort and guard the prisoners.  One of those units included the soldier Charlie, the other was the Colored unit under Gabriel’s command—an order that grated on many of the imprisoned Confederates.  Castiel supposed Gabriel gave the order as a final slap against the South; at the end of everything, the dregs of the proud Confederacy were imprisoned and guarded by Colored soldiers, who suddenly had so much power over them.  It didn’t bother Castiel, though, as it did others.  He, at least, could appreciate the irony.

 

 

 

 

                After they took the Oath, they were given food and water like Gabriel promised, and they were allowed to wander the yard of the fort, their new prison.  The survivors were even given pen and paper to write to their families and let them know that they’d been captured as prisoners of war.  Dean couldn’t write because the shoulder wound he’d suffered did enough damage that he didn’t have full control over his right hand any more.  So Castiel wrote the letter for them:

 

_Dearest Sam, Jo, and Ellen,_

_I am writing to tell you that Dean and I are alive, however we have been taken as prisoners of war at Fort McAllister.  We lost many men, and Dean was wounded in the fray, but we are both alive, and for that, we owe God thanks.  We came close to death so many times, but we prevailed each time._

_I do not want you to fret over us.  I am caring for your brother, and I have full faith that he will recover in time.  Do not let the tales of other war prisons frighten you.  We are being treated well, here.  That is why I am writing._

_Dean and I have taken the Oath of Allegiance to the United States, and in the event that Savannah falls and you are captured, we urge you not to resist.  Take the Oath and lay low, and wait out the war in the safest place you can find.  Take care of yourselves above all._

_Because we have taken the Oath, Dean and I have been given special privileges but we will continue to remain prisoners for the duration of this war.  I pray that the fighting ends swiftly, so that we can come home to you._

_With love,_

_Dean and Castiel_

 

 

            One week after he left Fort McAllister, Gabriel took Savannah without a fight.  The people of the city opened their gates to the Union soldiers and surrendered without bloodshed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only about 3 chapters left! I'd love to hear what you all think :)


	41. Chapter 41

 

 

_January-March, 1865_

 

            The ground was covered in a thick layer of frost and the air was so cold that Dean could see his breath with every exhale.  Most people were inside where it was warm, but Dean had business to attend to in the yard, despite the fact that the cold made his still-healing shoulder ache like a bitch.

            Dean had been watching the red-headed soldier for a couple weeks now, and he’d been trying to get a word with him, but it was difficult to get anyone alone in this place.  Still, this evening he’d seen an opportunity and he took it. 

            Charlie was standing duty on the wall, and he eyed Dean warily as he approached, and climbed the stairs to the wall to join him, but made no move to stop him or sound the alarm.  Dean kept his distance, but stood close enough that they could talk without being overheard.  He shoved his good hand into his pocket to keep it warm, though the other still hung useless in the sling draped around his neck. 

            They stood in a sort of awkward silence for a few moments until Dean finally cleared his throat and said, “I never got the chance to thank you for what you did.  Cas told me that without your help I woulda died.”

            Charlie turned to stare at him for a moment, eyes wide, before he glanced away.  “He’s exaggerating, it wasn’t a big deal.”

            “Cas doesn’t exaggerate.  You saved my life, so uh…thanks.  I guess I owe you one.”

            “Sure,” Charlie said, shifting uneasily and glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

            Dean was tempted to leave it at that, to leave without saying the rest, but maybe… maybe it was something that just needed saying.  He glanced around himself again, just to make sure that no one was listening, before he pursed his lips and said, “So, uh…do any of the others know?”

            Charlie stiffened, but didn’t look at Dean.  “Know what?”  he bit out, voice clipped.

            Dean shrugged easily.  “That you’re a woman.”

            Charlie gasped and startled so hard, she almost tripped and fell over the wall, but she managed to right herself at the last minute.  She gaped at Dean, shocked and fearful.  Dean could see her finger itching at her trigger, but in the end, she didn’t shoot him.  Her shoulders slumped and she mumbled, “No one knows.”  She bit her lip, then glanced up at him, nervous.  “What do you want?”

            Dean shrugged.  “It ain’t like that.  I don’t want anything from you.  Like I said, I owe you.  So you don’t gotta worry, I’ll keep your secret.”  Dean scuffed his boot against the stone.  “They’d throw you in prison for that, you know.  Or worse.”

            “I know.”  Charlie murmured.

            “So then, why’d you do it?”

            Charlie shrugged.  “Seemed like a good idea at the time, you know?  Everyone was signing up, all of my friends.  They wanted me to stay home and _wait it out_.  They said there was nothing I could do.  I guess I wanted to prove them wrong.”  She propped her gun against the wall and folded her arms over her chest.  “I’ve been in this war for about a year now, sleeping and living in close quarters with these men, and no one else has figured it out.  So how’d you know?”

            Dean smiled sadly to himself.  “You remind me of my cousin.  She’s a real good girl, a real spit-fire.  I think that if she’d been just a bit older, she mighta done the same thing.”  Dean shuddered.  “I can only thank God that she didn’t.  The shit I’ve seen in this war…”  Dean shook his head sadly.  “I’m just glad she didn’t have to see those things.”

            “Did she make it through okay?”

            “Yeah,” Dean smiled.  “My whole family did.”

            “Are they waiting for you?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And Cas?  Did his family make it through?”

            Dean frowned, a sour taste in his mouth at the mention of the Novaks.  “I’m his family,” Dean declared.  “My family…they’re waiting for both of us.”

            Dean expected Charlie to comment.  Hell, he was even ready with a defensive response, but she surprised him by not saying anything at all.  So Dean stood out in the cold for a couple more hours, just to keep her company.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Those that were healthy enough huddled around the camp fire in the yard, warming their cold hands and feet.  One of the former Confederate soldiers from the other unit blew warm breath on his hands and said, “So what are y’all’s plans when we get outta this mess?”

            Most of the soldiers told the same story: they were going back home to do their best to pick up the pieces of their families and their previous lives, for whatever good it’d do them.  Garth, who was healthy despite the fact that he’d lost an eye and still wore an eye-patch, smiled softly to himself and said “I wanna meet a nice girl and settle down, start a family.  All I wanna do for the rest of my life is live in peace.”

            The others murmured their assent.

            Castiel heard it all, but when it came his time to share, he found that he really didn’t have anything to say.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            The medic they’d had left with Gabriel and his forces to Savannah.  This loss might’ve been catastrophic for the wounded, but luckily one of the Colored soldiers filled the role, albeit grudgingly.  His name was Rufus Turner, and before the war, he’d worked as an assistant to a doctor in New York.  Odds were, he’d never have his own practice or get credit for his knowledge and skills, but when it came down to it, Rufus knew how to do everything the medic did.

            He was the one who tended to Bobby Singer after the amputation.  At first, while Bobby was still delirious and on Death’s door, all had been somber and sedate.  The whole camp knew when Bobby was starting to get his strength back, though, because he and Rufus clashed something terrible.  Every day, like clockwork, they were at each other’s throats.  Bobby yelling that he didn’t need no damn nursemaid, and Rufus yelling that Bobby was a dumb, stubborn son of a bitch.  Rufus liked to remind Bobby that if it wasn’t for his own kindness, Bobby would have died from gangrene.

            Their bickering made a lot of the soldiers nervous—maybe they figured that since Bobby was a Confederate, he took personal offense at being cared for by a Colored soldier, but anyone who knew Bobby Singer knew that he just hated being looked after at all.  Period. 

            Still, occasionally, they stirred up enough of a ruckus that someone had to intervene.  They’d curse each other, and throw things at each other, and once Rufus even told Bobby “I’m gonna leave you to die, you ungrateful son of a bitch!”  But he didn’t.

            Their bickering never got any better, but as the months passed, occasionally they could be found passing long hours together over a game of Chess in the make-shift medical quarters, bitching at each other over stupid moves and the impracticality of allowing a couple officers to dictate the moves of so many pawns.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            The captain of the Colored unit—one of the two men in charge of Fort McAllister—was a brisk, relatively young man named Victor Henriksen.  At first, Castiel had thought him too young to be an officer, but then he’d seen the way Henriksen commanded respect and worked alongside his men without complaint.  The other men followed him without argument.

            Castiel had avoided him and the other Union soldiers as much as he possibly could as a precaution against hostilities.  For a while, the Yankees were happy to comply—what did they all have to say to each other, anyway, that wouldn’t lead to confrontation?

            It surprised, Castiel, therefore, when Henriksen sought him out one day in February while Castiel took some fresh air in the yard.  Henriksen was composed, cordial, even, as he sidled up to Castiel, looked him in the eyes, and said, “One of your former comrades—Roman—tells me that your family owned a rather large plantation just outside of Forsyth.”

            Castiel tipped his head in acknowledgment.  “That’s true.”  He murmured.

            Henriksen folded his hands precisely at the small of his back and turned his eyes away from Castiel’s.  “My mother was a slave,” Henriksen began.  “My older siblings were born slaves too.  My mother was a brave and loving woman and she ran away from her plantation master before I was born—I was lucky enough to have been born in Pennsylvania.”  Henriksen looked back to Castiel then, and Castiel found himself caught by the intensity in the other man’s eyes.  “It’s because of people like you that my mother carried scars on her skin until the day she died.  People like you who told her and my brothers that they’d never be good for anything except slaves.”  Henriksen bit the inside of his cheek for a moment before he smiled, but it was a hard, cold expression, and there was no joy in it.  “The day they announced that Colored men could join the Union army, I was the first in line to sign up.”  He narrowed his eyes at Castiel.  “I joined with the express purpose of destroying men like you.”

            Castiel kept his face impassive as he said, “You hate me.”

            “I do.”  Henriksen took a deep breath, tension draining from his shoulders, and then he said, “You said some fancy words that keep you safe for now, and hell, some people might even believe that they  redeem you.  But I’m here to tell you that you’ve got blood on your hands so thick that it can’t ever be washed cleaned.  You can repent every day until the end of your days, and it still won’t save you.  Men like you are best washed clear from this earth.”

            Castiel’s jaw ticked, before he maintained his calm as he asked “Is that all?”

            Henriksen stared at Castiel for another moment, assessing, before he nodded.  “That’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter and then an epilogue!


	42. Chapter 42

 

 

_September, 1865_

 

            They left with the clothes on their backs, but not much else.  They had a long walk ahead of them, but they’d walked further before under worse circumstances, so it didn’t bother them overly much.  They were healthy, mostly, and though they were skinnier than they’d been before the war, they weren’t starving either. 

            The countryside still hadn’t recovered from the fires that the Union army had set as they’d swept through Georgia, and many of the farms still lay abandoned.  Dean was sad to see the destruction the Yankees had wrought, but after everything, he supposed it could have been worse.  It had been a gradual process, and Dean had witnessed it happening for two years.

            Though they’d been imprisoned since December of 1864, there were many soldiers in the units stationed at Fort McAllister that had shared information with them—about the war, and world events.  Dean was thankful for that now, because otherwise he would have felt even more isolated from the world as it now stood.  There was a new order in the South, and it would take some getting used to.

            They didn’t encounter many friendly faces on their journey.  Union troops still occupied much of Georgia, and they watched Dean and Cas knowingly as they made their way slowly through the burnt-out countryside.  Lots of ex-slaves still milled around—free, but with no money, and nowhere to go.  Healing was a process, Dean knew, and processes take time, but he couldn’t help but feel hopeless as he beheld the ruins of what had once been the great state of Georgia. 

            The United States government had launched their new program of reconstructing the once-prosperous South, but Dean knew it wasn’t gonna be that easy.  There was too much blood under the bridge, too many wounds that hadn’t healed, and couldn’t be healed—at least, not in their lifetime.  Dean knew that they were all going to be punished—for starting the war, and for losing it.

 

 

 

            There were others like them: released Confederate prisoners.  Some of them were headed back to their homes, to see if anything was left, but a lot of them wandered aimlessly.  A lot of men had no homes left.  Dean and Cas’s homes back in Forsyth had been razed to the ground a long time ago, so Dean didn’t even allow himself to think about it.

            They made their way steadily toward Savannah, though it was slow-going.  They were constantly hungry, their stomachs gnawing and growling, and distracting them from their purpose.  There wasn’t much to do about it, though.  Occasionally, they stumbled upon crops that had gone wild and here and there, sprouted up amid the ashes and ruined fields.  Dean and Cas tried to keep to themselves to avoid trouble—even when they came across other travelers, they kept their mouths shut.  It was even more dangerous these days to even give a stranger your name.

            Most nights, they slept out under the stars, shivering as the night leeched the land of the day’s warmth.  They took turns sleeping still—the months of battle had left their mark and it was hard to find rest.  Really, Dean couldn’t figure out how either of them would ever have true peace again—they’d seen too much.  They’d marched through Hell, side-by-side, and they’d drenched themselves in blood doing it, but they’d come out alive on the other side.  Dean figured that was worth it, no matter what anyone else said.  He’d seen too many of his friends, and countless strangers die bloody on the battlefield to ever believe that death was a more glorious end to the war.  Sure, there were a million and one challenges waiting for them now that they’d survived, but they’d get through it because they were fighters, the both of them, and that’s what they did. 

            One night they found an abandoned barn to sleep in, and only after they’d crawled into the hayloft had Cas allowed Dean to wrap him in his arms and just breathe him in.  It had been too long since they’d been close, too long since Dean had felt the warm press of Cas’s body in a long line against his.  Still, Dean thought, that feeling, as he held Cas close to him, was probably as close to Heaven as he was ever likely to get.

            They’d both changed so much since they left home—over the course of the war, Cas had grown from Dean’s skinny, coltish best friend, to the strong, capable man who held him now.  Cas had always been a sweet, caring boy, and as Dean looked into his deep blue eyes, he knew that at the core, Cas still was that, but he’d become something else also.  He’d compromised his morals and left pieces of himself on the bloody battlefields along the way all in the name of protecting Dean, of fulfilling a promise to bring Dean back home.  Probably no one back home would ever believe that Cas had become their unit’s sharpshooter, wouldn’t believe that Castiel had most likely taken down more men during his time as a soldier than any other single soldier in their unit.  He’d been methodical in the way he’d delivered those unknown soldiers to their deaths, and though he hadn’t flinched at the squeeze of the trigger, Dean had still always been able to see how much each life taken weighed on Cas’s heart.  Even during their months as prisoners, after the killing was done, Cas had held onto that part of himself.  Dean wasn’t sure if Cas was afraid of letting it go, or even if he knew how to.  But the war was over now, and they were free men, and Dean knew that he’d spend the rest of his life making Cas better if that’s what he had to do. 

            Dean had changed a lot over the last two years as well.  Like Cas, there were the physical changes—his shoulders and chest had broadened, his voice had deepened, and he’d built the sort of muscle that he’d never had as a teenager.  And now, Dean bore a battle wound that he would carry with him for the rest of his life—he’d lived, and Cas had been able to save Dean’s right arm, but the shoulder wound had caused nerve and muscle damage, and Dean no longer had full control over his right arm, and some days he couldn’t make a fist with his right hand either.  Dean knew that it would have far-reaching consequences later, and it would impact Dean’s ability to make a living to support himself and his family, but still, he knew that it was a small price to pay for his life and Cas’s.   But the biggest changes in Dean were the ones that couldn’t be seen.  He’d learned, over the course of the last two years, what true sorrow was.  He’d learned lessons in pain and grief and fear, rage and apathy.  More than once, Dean had thought that Castiel was dead, taken from him forever.  There were no words to describe the sucking darkness that fear had left behind in Dean’s soul.  Even now, when Cas was safe and alive next to Dean, Dean’s heart wasn’t fully healed from the fear and rage that had burned through him when Cas had been taken.  Dean would probably never be over it, not really.  He endeavored to keep that nightmare at bay, though, by keeping Cas with him, for always.  Through the course of the war, Dean had had his freedom taken from him, and then his family and his home, and the Union soldiers had done their damnedest to take his life as well.  On those bloody, muddy fields, Dean had been stripped of everything, and he’d been left bare, exposing what lay at his very core.  Dean learned that he could be strong, determined, and courageous when he had to be, learned that he carried within himself a sort of compassion he’d never really recognized before the horrors of the war.  But there was a darkness as well, that after confronting, Dean knew that he’d never be able to run from, never be able to forget.  Dean was capable of terrible things, too.

 

 

 

 

            They’d heard that Savannah had been taken without shots being fired, but they hadn’t dared believe that it was true.  They were surprised to see the stately houses that still lined the main thoroughfares and the tall, ancient trees that stood guard over the city. 

            The city was bustling and business was thriving when Dean and Cas finally reached it.  It was a shock to them—a crush of humanity going about their business peacefully, as if they were untouched by the wider destruction the war had wrought.  Dean wasn’t sure whether he was reassured or offended by the nonchalance of the place, but he couldn’t bring himself to buy into it.  He was on edge among so many other people, strangers.  Cas strode next to him, step for step, their shoulders brushing, almost as though they were marching into battle once again.  In a way, it sort of felt like they were.

 

 

 

 

            They found the house easily from the address that was scribbled in faded ink on the front of the last letter they’d received from Sam.  It was a red brick building, respectable, and in much better shape than Dean had been expecting.  They weren’t sure what sort of welcome they’d receive, weren’t even sure that their family would be there, but they made their way up the stairs to the third floor, where Sam had said they had a room. 

            Dean didn’t know what he was waiting for, but still he hesitated, hand raised before the solid wooden door.  Cas ran a hand down Dean’s back encouragingly, and it was only then that Dean found the courage to knock.  Shuffling sounded inside the apartment, and the few seconds it took between the knock and the door opening felt like an eternity.

            Dean was confused at first, couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing, and then as comprehension dawned, Dean’s mouth dropped open.  He was only afforded a second of stunned silence, though, before he was crushed in Sam’s embrace—Sam who was seventeen years old now and taller than Dean and Cas.  There was a flurry of activity, and an excited shout from inside, and then Dean was swamped by more bodies, arms squeezing him tightly, voices high and unintelligible with excitement.  He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he recognized that after two years, he was being held tight by his family, and that’s when he felt the tears prick his eyes.  A moment later, Cas was pulled into the crush and they all hugged and wept on each other in the doorway of the apartment.

            Everything was a blur for a bit, but eventually Dean found himself in the small but clean apartment that his family now lived in.  They crowded around him and Cas, and continued to babble senselessly with happiness.  When they’d left Forsyth in 1863, Sam was still a boy, but he was a man now, and Dean’s heart ached to know that he’d missed so much.  Even Jo looked different—she had the curves of a woman now, and she stood much taller than the last time Dean had seen her, on the day he’d left his home behind.  Ellen was still a pillar of strength, and her eyes were kind, her arms welcoming, though her face was more heavily lined now and her hair was beginning to gray.  The war had taken so much time from them all, _so much time_ that they’d never get back, but Dean promised himself then and there that he wasn’t gonna miss their lives like that again. 

            Dean watched, still teary-eyed, as Sam caught Cas up in a giant hug, nearly lifting him off the floor, as he sobbed into his shoulder, “You kept your promise, Cas.  You kept it.  You brought him home.”  Cas wasn’t crying, but he was wordless in the face of overwhelming emotion, so he simply nodded.  

            Dean rubbed at his red, puffy eyes and said “Me and Cas, we brought each other back.”  When they all piled in for another hug, then, Cas did cry.

            It took a long time for them to settle down enough to begin thinking of practical things, like clean clothes for Dean and Cas, and hot food, because they’d been on the road a long time, and Ellen had already exclaimed, more than once, that they were both too skinny.

            It wasn’t until they’d sat down to eat that Dean’s family noticed his injury.  Over the last few months, Dean had taught himself to do most things with his left hand, and although he was still a bit clumsy with it, it was better than trying to work with his right hand.  Dean saw the moment when the reality of the situation dawned on their faces, because Sam’s eyes got watery again, but Ellen only laid a hand on Dean’s back and said “You’re home now, sweetheart—that’s all that matters.  We’ll take care of each other like we’ve always done, and we’ll be alright, just you wait and see.”

            Sitting around that table with hot food and everyone in the world that Dean loved, safe and happy, well… Dean couldn’t help but believe her.

 

 

 

 

 

            In March of 1866, the two Harvelle women, along with the three brothers Winchester, left Georgia heading West, with the hope of happiness filling their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, only the epilogue left. Let me know what you think! :)


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the epilogue, my friends!

 

 

_October, 1868_

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

 

 

            A chill wind blew over the land, rustling the red and orange and yellow leaves that painted the countryside—it wasn’t an ominous wind, but it was one that promised a steady cooling and the eventual hush of winter.   

            The Harvelle-Winchester boarding house stood back amid a thick clutch of trees, tall and pale against the colorful autumn background.  A steady line of woodsmoke rose from the chimney, speaking to the warmth and comfort that was to be found within.  The house stood on a large stretch of land about a mile outside of the ever-growing town of Sioux Falls, named after the beautiful rapids on the Big Sioux River that ran through the settlement. 

            It was a good place, full of opportunities for those who were willing to work hard.  The people of Sioux Falls came from everywhere, and they didn’t cause a fuss over who you were or where you were from, so long as you were a dedicated and peaceful type.  When the Winchester family arrived in Sioux Falls in the summer of 1866, it had been hard.  They’d all had to take whatever jobs they could find and scrape their pennies together to survive, but they’d done it.  They’d made it through the summer, and the fall, and though that first winter was desolate and demanding, they’d made it through that, too.

            Things got easier for them as time passed and folks got to know them; in Sioux Falls, the Winchesters soon earned a reputation for being honest and hardworking.  They were real neighborly folks, and because of this, no one bothered asking too many questions about the scars that they bore, or what their lives had been before coming to Sioux Falls.

            They’d had to save almost every penny for a year, but they’d finally been able to buy the old house on the edge of town.  They’d fixed it up good and made it as homey as they were able with their limited funds.  They’d even planted gardens around the back, and flowers out front.  The house was big enough for all five of the Winchester family to live there, and still have rooms to let.  Mostly, it was a nice place where folks passing through on their way out West could get a good night sleep and a hot meal in their bellies, but sometimes these wanderers stayed longer, found work in Sioux Falls, and ended up finding places of their own. 

            It was the nicest place that the Winchesters had ever lived, and it was their own, paid in full.   It was reassuring to know that they had a warm, safe place to live, and it made them all feel good to know that they could offer that same comfort to others too, even if just for a night. 

            That first year in Sioux Falls, it had been hard for Dean to find work because of the injury to his right arm—it was hard for him to do the sort of manual labor that he’d once been so used to, but even still, they got by.  Dean became very efficient with his left hand, and eventually his employers realized that Dean’s integrity and work ethic outweighed whatever disability his injury carried with it.  Now, though, they didn’t have to worry.  Dean helped Ellen and Jo to run the boardinghouse, maintaining the house and fixing things as they were needed.  Dean had always felt great pride in caring for his home and his family, and now was no different.  It took him longer to do things now, maybe, but he tended to his home and his family lovingly in his own time, and it was good.

            Ellen Harvelle was well-liked around town for her frankness and her determination, and she made friends easily with men and women alike in the community.  In return, when strangers blew into town, the good people of Sioux Falls sent them Ellen’s way. 

            After everything, Ellen had been right.  The Winchester family had taken care of each other, and they’d pulled through the thick of their troubles, stronger for having stuck together.  Now their lives were good, better than Ellen had ever even allowed herself to imagine they might be.

            Jo was happy and healthy and she enjoyed learning the business of running the boardinghouse.  She kept up their accounts and managed their books, and it still filled her with happiness to spend time with her family, even doing mundane things like cooking dinner for themselves and guests and washing the laundry.   She hoped that someday, she might meet a man in Sioux Falls who piqued her interest, but until that day arrived, Jo was content with the way her life had turned out.  She was happy and healthy and she had her family all close around her, and she knew that after everything, that was all that mattered.

            Sam Winchester had found a job as a clerk at the Sioux Falls law office, where he maintained records and handled correspondence for the lawyers.  After months of working with them, the lawyers had noticed that Sam was a very bright young man, and they’d taken him under their wing.  There was no law college in Sioux Falls, but Sam was learning the inner workings of the law and justice systems anyhow, and he held high hopes that someday he would also be a lawyer.  Sam had grown into a fine young man, very tall and broad for his age, and when he stood in a court of law, even as an aid to the lawyers, he was an impressive figure.  Everyone figured that someday, he would be very successful. 

            Sam had had a lot of luck in Sioux Falls.  He’d gotten a job that he liked, he got to spend his days with his family, and he’d even met a sweet girl whose parents owned the mill next to the falls.  Her name was Jessica Moore and she and Sam had been courting for months already.  Dean figured there would be a wedding soon enough, and he couldn’t have been prouder of his little brother.

            Cas had always been the kind of person who felt too much—of everything.  A beautiful sunrise had the power to give him new hope, new life, just like the death of a stranger had the power to bring him down to the lowest levels of his own personal Hell.  Dean had always known this about him—it was one of the things he loved most about Cas—his ability to feel.  The emotional beating that Cas had suffered had started long before the war, back when he was still just a boy, when he’d been hit, locked away, and starved for protesting the abuse of a slave.  He’d endured similar treatment his whole life, and he’d internalized that pain, held onto it, made it his own.  Dean still remembered holding Cas when he was covered in another man’s blood, gasping and crying, and thinking that he’d do whatever it took to keep his best friend safe.  He hadn’t been able to, in the end, but he’d never stopped trying.

            Dean still remembered the day when Cas had brazenly announced to Dean that he was signing up for D Company, despite being exempt from duty, simply because Dean hadn’t had a choice, and Cas couldn’t bear to watch Dean march off without him, unprotected.  Neither of them had fully grasped the immensity of that decision, and they hadn’t known what it would mean for them, not until they were in the thick of the war and it was already too late to turn back.  Despite everything—the starvation and the sickness and the death—they’d stuck by each other’s sides, and they’d saved each other.  Through the terror and the heartache and the mind-numbing pain, they’d become something even stronger than what they were before, something that neither one of them ever wanted to let go of.

            Castiel Winchester left his old name and all of his associations behind him in Georgia when they left.  He had forsaken the Novak name and everything it ever meant.  Dean doubted that Cas’s family would even bother looking for him, even just to see if he had made it through the war alive.  But even if they looked now, they’d never find him. 

            No one in Sioux Falls batted a lash when they said that Cas was Dean & Sam’s brother, even though he looked nothing like them.  On the day that Dean & Cas had announced that Cas was going to take the name Winchester when they left Georgia, Dean’s family had stared back at him like he was stupid, and Ellen had just scoffed and said, “We all thought it was already done.”  Before that day, Dean hadn’t believed that he could love his family more, but he’d been proven wrong. 

            They never asked him about what had happened between him and Cas, and they never commented on their even more obvious closeness.  Dean was sure that they all knew, but God bless them, not a single one of them ever said a word about it.  Dean knew that Ellen had known, even before the war, that Dean and Cas were something special for each other.  And whether or not the love they shared was a sin, the Winchesters didn’t care.  There were worse things in the world, and Cas was family.  Family took care of each other, no matter what.

            There was nothing strange about brothers living together, especially when the whole Winchester family lived together in one big house, and so the people of Sioux Falls never asked questions, either, and that was alright.  Dean and Cas were used to taking things easy, and anyway, a certain level of affection between siblings was acceptable even in public.  No one said a word about the occasional touches and hugs, especially since the whole Winchester family were very close, and Dean treated Sam and Jo with an exuberant level of affection anyway.

            Dean had been afraid for Cas for a long time.  He’d carried the weight of all those dead soldiers with him wherever he went, and it had become a darkness in his heart—a swirl of guilt and grief and anger.  One night, while they’d been drifting to sleep, Cas had mumbled, “I can never take it back, Dean.”  Dean didn’t have to ask to know what Cas was talking about, and yeah, there were some things that you just couldn’t fix.  So Dean hadn’t said anything about it.  Instead, he’d just pulled Cas tight against him, and whispered into his dark, messy hair, “I love you.”

            Dean and Cas both carried their own kinds of scars from the war, only most of them couldn’t be seen.  Dean had learned to make peace with what he’d done—he hadn’t had many choices, and he’d always tried to do what was right, when he could.  The rest of the time, he’d done what he needed to do to keep himself and Cas alive, and he wouldn’t allow himself to regret that, not ever.  So Dean tried to push those dark thoughts away and move on with his life, and mostly, it worked.  Cas fought a more bitter battle with his own demons, though. 

            Cas had always been such a gentle soul—Dean had never thought Cas would have it in him to hurt anyone, let alone strike them down, one after another, in bloody, countless numbers, all in the name of saving Dean Winchester. 

            When they’d first arrived in Sioux Falls, they’d all done whatever they needed to do to make a living, but after they bought the boardinghouse, they could afford to take a step back and ask themselves what they really wanted out of life.  Dean was content to help Ellen and Jo with the house; so long as he got to see his family every day and he could afford to feed them, he was a happy man.  People like Sam and Cas, though, they’d always been so ambitious, and Dean encouraged them both to do whatever they thought might make them happy.  Cas had thought about it for a long time—Dean figured he’d probably been thinking of it for years, if not most of his life.  But when he finally confessed to Dean one night what he’d really like to do, it didn’t surprise Dean in the least.  He’d twined their fingers together and said “I think you should do it.”  That was all the convincing that Cas needed, apparently.

            Shortly thereafter, Cas returned home one evening with a genuine smile on his face and the announcement that he’d been taken on as the apprentice of Sioux Fall’s local, but aged doctor.  That night, as they’d curled around each other, sharing soft kisses, Cas had whispered in the dark, “I’m going to learn to heal people, Dean.”  Dean brushed his fingers through Cas’s hair and hummed softly as Cas continued, “I can’t ever take back those things that I did—can’t ever bring those men back.  But… Dean… I’m going to spend the rest of my life saving as many as I am able.”  Cas shook his head, sighing.  “It might not ever be enough, but…well, it’s a start.  And I can be content with that.”

 

 

 

 

              One day, Ellen returned home from town with a letter in her hands, which she handed to Dean with a furrowed brow.  Dean frowned up at her and she shrugged, saying “It’s got your name on it.  Says it’s from someone named Robert Singer.”

               Dean’s heart nearly stopped in his chest, and he looked down at the folded parchment with dread in his heart.  His fingers shook as he opened the letter, terrified of what it might say.  Still, Dean took a deep breath, summoned his courage, and began to read:

 

 

_Dean,_

_I hope this letter finds you happy and healthy.  I know you probably think it’s strange to hear from me, but I hope you don’t mind that I’ve decided to write.  We never really got a chance to talk after the end of the war, and I’ve found myself wondering, over the years, just what happened to you and Novak._

_At the risk of sounding womanly, we all sort of became a family through our trials and tribulations.  And then we lost most of that family.  It’s difficult for me to admit, but for a long time, I couldn’t even bear to think on it, and I was in a dark place myself, after the loss of my leg._

_There weren’t many of us left after the war ended, and I didn’t particularly have anywhere to go, either.  I wasn’t alone, though.  I don’t know if you ever knew it, but Ben Braeden went with me, and we stuck together, and I guess we made it through okay.  He was always a good kid—too brave and stubborn for his own good, but a good kid.  I won’t bore you with our difficulties, but needless to say, it wasn’t easy for a kid and a cripple to get by, but somehow we managed, and we’re doing alright now._

_For a long time, I didn’t allow myself to think about the war, and everything that we lost, but then memories started to haunt me, little pieces at a time, and I began to wonder just what had happened to the rest of you.  I was able to find the other boys—Chuck swallowed his pride and moved to New York to pursue a writing career, of all things, and Garth, bless his heart, got married to a nice girl and settled down just like he wanted._

_I’ve been looking for you boys for the best part of two years, but I wasn’t able to find anything, and I probably never would have, either, except that a couple months ago, a friend of mine sent me a newspaper clipping out of Sioux Falls, Dakota Territory, announcing the opening of the Harvelle-Winchester boarding house.  I admit, I wasn’t surprised to find both yours and Castiel’s names in that article.  I wasn’t even surprised to see that the boy had changed his name.  I woulda, too, in all honesty, if my name carried such a stigma as his did.  It helped to explain why I couldn’t find you, though._

_I hope that you are doing well in your new home, though by the sound of that article, I guess that you are.  I have always prided myself on being a hard man, but I don’t think it makes me soft to say that I’m glad the two of you were able to stick together after everything.  In all my years, I never met any two people who cared more for each other than the two of you.  Good friends like that are hard to come by, and I think that when we find them, we should hang onto them, no matter what._

_Over the last three years, I’ve had a lot of time to think about the war and everything we all lost, everything we all sacrificed.  And I just wanted to tell you that, looking back, I’m proud to have served with you both, and I wish you all the happiness in the world._

_Sincerest Regards,_

_Bobby Singer_

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to thank everyone who read this story and stuck with me through writing it. It was a long, crazy journey, but I'm happy where it ended up, and I hope you are too. You're all awesome! And remember, comments are love :) You can find me on my tumblr: http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/
> 
> If you really enjoyed, you could decide to buy me a coffee here: http://ko-fi.com/A3479Y5


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